


You Only Live Thrice

by Trista_zevkia



Series: Bond, John Bond [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, F/M, Forced Bonding, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, M/M, Omega John, Omega Verse, Rape, Sexual Coercion, in-universe lawful coercion, triggering as all get out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 80,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title is a Bond Movie word play, because it is impossible for people to live more than once. </p><p>Unless there is a miracle involved. Just one more miracle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cracked

John stared at the rain washing down the window. For all the effort that had gone into making this a calming and neutral space, the wild rain was the only thing that eased something in him. Ella was waiting, as she had for the last four sessions, waiting for John to talk. 

“John, you need to say it.” She gently prodded, which was what she did instead of telling John something useful. 

“Why?” He asked, not for the first time. 

“You will understand when you say it out loud.” She replied, not for the first time either, though it had yet proved to be useful. 

Closing his eyes for a moment let John reach for the soldier he used to be. “My mate… Sherlock Holmes… is dead.” His voice cracked and tears threatened, but he didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried since he woke in hospital, doubly alone. “With his death…” His voice was gone for a moment, so John pulled on every resource of the man he used to be finish. “With his death came my greatest failure as I… lost our baby.” 

John felt his body sag, depleted of the energy to sit up straight. Ella gave him a few moments to stare out the window and let the world cry for him. 

“Very good, John. I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you’ve accomplished something here today.” 

Accomplished was a stupid word, John thought. How could one accomplish anything or get closure when all it meant was more useless sentiment and emotion coming his way? He felt like a traitor for saying such things about Sherlock. Part of him thought he’d still expect Sherlock to come waltzing back in the door, even if they weren’t bondmates. 

“Acceptance is a long road, particularly for omegas.” Ella was still talking, so John gave a halfhearted nod in her direction. 

Particularly for omegas she’d said, and John hadn’t even curled a fist in annoyance. Mycroft had insisted John see a shrink, looking as if he couldn’t believe the words he was saying even as he said them. He’d at least had the sense and foresight to get John a shrink who worked with returning soldiers and other people who experienced trauma, instead of an omega shrink. This meant Ella would say textbook things about how different and extra fragile omegas were, but John found that acceptable. He couldn’t even get properly angry at her for it, but he knew he’d find his anger if forced to deal with an omega specialist. 

Instead of neutral colors, that office would be full of soft edges and frills. Instead of a glass of water, maybe tea, he’d have at his elbow ‘nutritionally enhanced’ designer water. There’d be New Age musak and floral scented incense that neutralized alpha smells. They’d also be asking after his heats and his search for a new alpha. If he was having trouble finding a new alpha, they’d remind him (as if he hadn’t heard it his whole life) that his family’s head alpha would assist. All and all, John appreciated that he was with a real shrink, even if it wasn’t helping. 

“There are positive influences in your life and you need to seek them out. Activities you used to enjoy that may feel forced right now but if you practice them, you will find your enjoyment returns. Anything like that you can think of?” Ella asked, and John thought about it. 

He used to enjoy sex, but as an omega he couldn’t have that without an alpha; he only wanted Sherlock. Hadn’t even had a micro-heat since Sherlock. He’d enjoyed the army, being one of the crowd, one of the boys, all working toward a common goal. He doubted the army would take him back, what with being invalided out, shown to be lying about his gender which was a court-marshal offence, and now with a C-section scar and psychosomatic limp. He’d enjoyed being a surgeon, the world focused down to him and something he could fix. Shot through the shoulder of his dominate hand and getting nerve damage kind of ended that too. 

“I enjoyed assisting Sherlock with his work.” That was something John could still do, physically and mentally, if only Sherlock was still around. It also shut Ella up for a few minutes. 

“John, have you ever done anything creative?” 

“Other than making a baby?” Ella winced, but John didn’t feel anything at purposely misinterpreting the question. 

“Art, such as drawing or painting.” 

“No, and with my shoulder messed up I doubt it’ll be worth my effort to start.” 

“That’s exactly the point, John. You need to start something you’ve never done before. It will force you to change your thinking, concentrating on what is going on, as opposed to thinking about the past. Doesn’t have to be drawing.” She paused to look him over. 

John was used to much more penetrating and all-seeing gazes, from either Holmes brother, so he didn’t respond at all. Drawing was a terrible idea; he hadn’t seen a beautiful thing since Sherlock. He hadn’t even seen the baby, or their funerals. He’d been in hospital still, and later Mrs. Hudson had taken him to the site. 

A large black monument with a name carved into it, beside a smaller one that matched but said only Baby Holmes. Baby Holmes had died and been buried before anyone thought to ask John what name they’d picked out. Mycroft had made the final decisions and he’d never shown any interest in the baby he wasn’t genetically linked to. John had Sherlock’s money and could fix the baby’s grave, but John hadn’t yet. It would require effort and fighting; other parts of John that had broken with Sherlock. 

“You carry notebooks.” 

“What?” John had heard her; he simply didn’t know what that had to do with anything. 

“I can see it in your pocket, a little notebook.” 

“Habit I picked up working with Sherlock. Writing down his observations, things that happened, and any questions I had.” 

“Excellent. Start a blog.” 

“What?” John parroted his earlier confusion. 

“I want you to start a blog, and send me the link. I want you to spend an hour a day, at least, writing down what’s happening to you.” 

“Nothing happens to me.” 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Sherlock woke to the familiar sensation of waking up exhausted from a drugged sleep. He knew he was in a hospital without really knowing how he knew it, but this was enough information to let him wake calmly. When he noticed how heavy and detached his limbs felt, he worked his eyes open instead of struggling instinctively against the restricted movement. 

Mycroft was sitting in a chair, watching him wake, so that was calming in its own way. Sherlock would never admit it, but never-changing Mycroft was a grounding influence when he woke disoriented. Both of his legs and his right arm were suspended from the ceiling, casts around the left femur, the right leg from thigh to foot, and the humerus of his right arm. 

“John.” He said, but his voice cracked and creaked, making the word indecipherable. 

“Have some water and allow me to tell you about John.” Mycroft replied anyway, holding out a cup with a straw. “Sip it, otherwise you might become nauseated.” 

Sherlock wanted to retort but the tepid and stale water tasted heavenly. 

“John is safe and unharmed. He is quite intelligent and observant. When he saw the red light from the assassins target scope he knew that it was a threat to force you to comply, as no real assassin relies on visible laser dots that give away their intentions. So he calmly moved out of sight and called me. Naturally, I told him to go to 221 C and hide. Instead he put on a wig and large overcoat and got a cab to you.” 

Sherlock made a sound of distress, hating that his nightmares seemed to be based in facts. 

“Yes, he saw you fall. He made it to you as you blacked out but before he could touch you or take your pulse as he was attempting to do, the crowd noticed he was a distressed omega. They pulled him away and got him medical attention, which is just as well, since he went into stress induced labor. The baby did not survive.” 

“John?” The word was understandable this time. 

“He is suffering, but mainly because he believes you to be dead.” 

“What?” Sherlock sputtered, trying to move so he could kill his brother right this second and go to John. The traction and casts kept him pinned, so all his thrashing tired him out and stretched his left arm across his chest to gesture at Mycroft. 

“Calm down or I shall not explain.” 

Sherlock forced himself to present a calm exterior, but only because the injuries had him trapped. 

“The bond is still there and you can feel it if you try. It is weak and John believes what he feels is a familial bond with me. Originally, this deception began when the doctors could not assure me that you would survive the fall. It continued because the swelling on your brain may have caused permanent damage. After it was shown that you would not suffer such an indignity, I had them keep you in a medically induced coma until your injuries had healed. When the doctors told me it would take six to twelve weeks for your thigh bone to heal, I believed you would find a coma preferable to daytime television.” 

Sherlock could see the logic to that statement and would have agreed if not for one little thing. “John.” 

“I decided not tell John you were in a medically induced coma until your ‘transport’ healed enough to be useful again. I have not told him this yet because a new threat to John had been revealed. Moran had a deadman switch on his person; as soon as he fell a text was sent out to all of his contacts. It gave all the particulars, including address and several pictures, of your John. It also informed the contacts to collect the reward from the standard broker. 

“John’s targeted?” 

“Not directly. These killers were offered a million pounds for each of the John Watson-Holmes children, confirmed by genetic testing, dead or alive, good for the next ten years.” 

Sherlock erupted into a flurry of rage and futile movement, his left arm beating uselessly against the cast on his right arm. When exhaustion made him stop, he panted and glared at Mycroft. 

“I expected you would feel that way. Which was another reason to leave you asleep until your body was healed. The casts come of tomorrow, by the way. I am telling you all this so you can sleep on it tonight. While we have caught most of the people Moran had in his address book, the person or persons holding the reward has remained elusive. As such, rumors of the reward persist and different people are beginning to watch John now.” 

Sherlock growled, but didn’t rattle his chains again. 

“Moriarty’s organization has weakened now that Moran is out of the picture and we are making excellent headway in dismantling it. With your help and complete focus, it could be done much quicker. I woke you up today, instead of tomorrow when you are cast free, so that you may think about the decision before you.” 

Sherlock was curious now and knew Mycroft saw it. 

“You can return to John and have your joyous reunion, knowing desperate people would go to any length to abduct your children. Or you could stay dead and find who holds the money. Remove the reward and these people will leave you alone, though your reunion with John is postponed a little while.” 

“You just want him for yourself.” Sherlock said. 

“Don’t be so dull, brother.” Mycroft got to his feet and turned away. “John is safe, until he becomes pregnant or you change the situation. Think about what I have said.” 

“You won’t get him! John loves me; he said so. It’s not just biology making us come together, and he won’t take you as a poor substitute.” Sherlock was shouting though it made his throat ache. 

Mycroft walked away, ignoring the words and their speaker. 

Soon enough Sherlock was quiet, surrounded by medical staff asking inane questions. He answered without thinking about it; already damning his brother for being right all the time. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

“How’s the blog?” Ella’s question seemed to reverberate around the town car as John was driven back to Mycroft’s house. He hadn’t posted a word, though he’d written several in the laptop. He’d deleted most of them, but he was sure Mycroft’s goons had a copy somewhere. He’d try to detail his day, only to be so bored by it all he gave up before lunch. 

Breakfast with Mycroft was dull, as Mycroft asked rote questions he knew the answers to. John would nibble on his food and drink his tea, replying with the same words he’d used the day before. Mycroft would go to work and if John didn’t have a therapist appointment, he puttered around until he didn’t eat his lunch. Then it was a long afternoon until he picked at his supper and drank tea until bedtime. 

Even when he had almost continuous nightmares of the war, John hadn’t had this much trouble sleeping. Since omegas were vain little things, it was easy enough to hide the evidence from Mycroft and Ella with a little makeup, a concealer the servants purchased with his other needs. He’d get caught out eventually, but in the absence of suppressors his deteriorating health kept him from being fully bonded to Mycroft. 

As much as he’d like to think his body would never accept an alpha who wasn’t Sherlock, John had too much training in biology. Probably the only time his medical knowledge had been such a major disadvantage, except maybe when he knew exactly how long it would take him to bleed out from that shoulder wound in Afghanistan. But in the war zone, he’d had back-up he could trust. Now he had bodyguards disguised as mild mannered chauffeurs. There, he was somebody; now he was a brooding broodmare. 

Today’s deadly driver was waiting to turn up the last street before Mycroft’s London home. They’d pull up, the gatekeeper would open the door for John, which also let him block John from any snipers. The gatekeeper would walk John the twenty feet to the front door, and John would try not to get annoyed by the whole thing. He thought Mycroft’s security should concentrate on Mycroft, since John wasn’t in any danger. Without Sherlock or Jim’s child, John wasn’t worth killing. 

Today, John didn’t feel like getting trapped in Mycroft’s high walled garden and immaculate house. “Oi, Charlie.” 

“Yes, sir?” Charlie replied, eyes only flicking to the rearview mirror to see John. 

“Let me out; I want to go for a walk around the neighborhood.” 

Charlie paused, his orders contradicting each other. They were supposed to protect John while he went about his life, but so far he hadn’t tried to have a life. While Charlie worked out if John was allowed to take a walk outside the garden, John opened his door. Charlie had been too focused on John asking permission to lock the doors or simply drive away, trapping John in the car until Charlie could come to a decision. 

John fought his way out of the car, leaning heavily on his cane, and tried to worry about how much trouble Charlie might get into. John was quickly lost in the effort involved in walking with his cane. On that day, in his mad dash from the cab to St. Bart’s, he’d been more focused on the roof-top fight than the road. A bicyclist had also been watching the fight and knocked John down. 

From the ground, John had watched Sherlock fall. He was running, reaching for Sherlock before he was even aware of untangling himself from the bicycle. After that, everything was a grey wash of pain until he’d been in hospital for a week. The more they’d made him get up and walk, the worse his leg had felt. 

There was no medical reason for it, so he was given an omega shrink. Beta woman who specialized in omegas, since no omega could possibly be smart enough to be a shrink, and John’s anger had chased her out after ten minutes. He’d been given a cane, taught to walk with it, and sent to Mycroft’s house. It had been weeks without improvement to his limp before Mycroft had forced John to see Ella. John had gone simply to get out of the house. 

Mrs. Hudson came for Saturday tea, Greg for Sunday lunch, and John had therapy with Ella on Tuesday and Thursday. Daily breakfast with Mycroft, unless there was a major emergency, and Mycroft made time to eat lunch with John and Greg on Sunday, all equaled the sum total of John’s life now. John tried to talk himself into the antidepressant medication Ella wanted him to take but for now he wallowed in his anger and pain. Breathing was a reflex action now; otherwise he’d have stopped breathing when Sherlock had. 

Reflexes stopped the colorful ball that darted out of an open gate and toward him on the sidewalk. John looked up from his right foot, resting on the stopped ball, to take in his surroundings and wait for the owner of the ball the show up. She waddled out, too pregnant to run, and John was relieved it was an adult coming, and not a child who would run into the street without looking. Picking up the ball, John offered it to the omega but couldn’t offer a friendly smile with it. 

“Thank you.” She took the ball with a real smile before looking at him with some confusion. “Don’t I know you?” 

“I don’t think so.” Sherlock had attracted some attention before his death, though most of the media was more concerned with speculating about his death, but either way, John wasn’t of any interest. 

“You’re the male omega!” She said with a bright smile, reaching out to grab his free hand. “You moved in, not too long ago, a few streets over. Nobody knew you or who your alpha was, so we couldn’t invite you to our monthly baby showers.” 

She hadn’t let go of his hand, so John found himself being dragged inside the open gate. He could have forced his hand free, might have if he thought she posed any sort of threat, but for now he just followed her. Inside the gate he was suddenly the center of attention, with several people walking over to them. His hostess/captor seemed proud, as if she had accomplished something great. 

“Everybody, listen.” She commanded, though the group wasn’t necessarily the loudest John had ever heard. “You remember the male omega that moved in a few months ago? This is him.” She gestured with her free hand to John, and he suddenly felt like a prize on a game show. 

“Hello, I’m John.” 

That was all he got to say for a while, as he was lead around and introduced to about twenty omegas. The only other male omega was a tiny thing, maybe eighteen years old, what John thought was called a twink. There was an assortment of children around them, mostly the ones too young to leave with a beta sitter. For each omega John was introduced to, he was aware of a beta bodyguard watching closely. The omegas told him their names, how many kids they had and such, but it was all at such a rush of sound that John didn’t think he’d retain any of the information. 

Between the bodyguards, the neighborhood, and the clothing, it was clear these were the trophies of rich alphas. It seemed their monthly baby showers were a standard meeting on the last Friday of each month. It had been moved up a day because the hostess, Maggie, was going out to her country estate for the weekend. Maggie’s garden had a gate that opened it to the road, so her families’ cars could be parked in the garage. In bad weather, the gathering moved into the house, but today was nice enough to gather in the garden. 

Had he picked any other day for a walk, John wouldn’t have been pulled into this group. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but it seemed this was to be his life from now on. Before that thought could get an emotional response, Maggie was pouring him tea and showing him to a chair. Sitting down and taking a sip, John found they were all watching him, waiting for him to say something. Back to being the center of attention it seemed. 

“Right. I’m John, my alpha, he died. Yeah, and I lost the baby.” 

Their immediate outpouring of support and grief was a wash of background noise as John fought back his emotions. When he was ready to focus on them again, they had mostly settled for sympathetic looks. 

“So, I moved in with my mate’s brother, the head alpha of the family. I’m not really ready to talk about it, but thank you all.” 

There was a long silence before Maggie broke it; apparently ending such silences were part of her hostess duties. “John, Petra is having her first baby in a few months, and we like to give first time mothers what advice we can.” 

John smiled half-heartedly in the direction of Petra, or at least the direction everyone else was looking. Petra turned out to be very pregnant, even though she looked about fifteen. John repressed his curses about babies having babies. 

“From what I remember, the afterbirth is just as painful as the baby.” He hadn’t delivered babies in years, and those had been beta women, but he remembered that. 

“What is afterbirth?” Petra asked, but several of the faces were turned on him and shining with confusion. 

“The placental expulsion.” The confusion was stronger and John hadn’t even finished. “All the stuff surrounding the baby when it’s inside you, such as the tissues and fluids feeding the baby and protecting it, and the other end of the umbilical cord. After the baby or babies are born, the body shoves all this stuff out. Sometimes is slips out easily, but mostly it’s as if you are giving birth to another child.” 

John startled at the crying behind him and looked for the source. This woman was about twenty-five, old enough to have had several children. The omegas around her were trying to comfort her but she shook them off by standing. 

“Why didn’t anybody tell me? I’ve been going insane; grieving for dead children, thinking every one of my three kids was a survivor of their twin’s death. Do the doctors think it’s funny that I’m this stupid?” 

Nobody seemed willing to answer; they stared at their feet or the sky before daring to look at her. John decided to break this silence. 

“They don’t let us finish school and don’t provide tutors so we stay ignorant. Then they tell us we’re stupid and that’s not true at all. An omega could be a doctor or anything if they were allowed to, instead of breeding at second puberty. More babies would be healthier when born if their mothers were allowed to finish growing up, but with the alphas in control we’ll never get proper research on that.” 

“I invented a bra that uses breast friction to charge electronics.” Petra said, staring down at her baby bump. “Won a place at a fancy prep school, but they gave my place to the runner-up when I presented. She’s going to university and I’ll be lucky to see my kid graduate from one.” 

Around him, the monthly baby shower dissolved into bitter stories of the lives given up too early and more than a few tears. Misery might love company, but John felt bad for bringing down the party like this. John watched the beta bodyguards shift, fighting between embarrassment at what they were witnessing and an instinctive desire to make the omegas happy. John noticed Allan, the gatekeeper of Mycroft’s house, had joined that ring of bodyguards. John fixed and drank another cup of tea until there was another lull in the noise levels. 

“Has anybody ever heard of Miss Kitty?” He asked as casually as he could manage. 

“I read her posts.” Maggie said. “I didn’t believe it, thought it was a hoax.” 

“I tried it.” Another woman says, one John thinks is named Joni. “I couldn’t seem to figure it out. I guess I am stupid, since it was supposed to be natural suppressants you could make at home, but it never worked for me. But I can’t cook either, so advanced chemistry really is beyond me.” 

“What are we talking about?” The other male omega asked, and several of the younger omegas made noises of agreement. 

“It was a webpage that appeared back when the internet was kind of new. Miss Kitty claimed to be an omega living on suppressants she made from things you could buy at the grocers.” One of the oldest omegas there answered, surprising John. 

He would have thought Miss Kitty was after her time, unless she was looking for a way to stop having kids. In his secret heart, John wouldn’t mind two or three children, but ten or fifteen just sounded exhausting. 

“It worked for some.” John offered with a shrug. With so many beta witnesses, he didn’t dare tell them more about how the current wave of late presenters were a result of Miss Kitty’s work. He also didn’t dare tell them about how he’d hidden for years, with knowledge of pharmaceuticals and advanced chemistry. His Dad had only been a druggist, but he’d shared what he knew with both his children. 

Petra burst into tears and ran for the open gate. A beta peeled out of the ring of bodyguards and followed after her. 

“Wish I’d heard of her.” The twink said, before walking out the gate. His beta followed at a much more sedate pace than Petra’s had. 

“I’m sorry.” John muttered to the assemblage. They didn’t seem to hear as they went about gathering up children and bags, so John slipped out. Allan was soon at his elbow, directing him to the town car. John went readily, his mind on a new problem. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

John didn’t see Mycroft until breakfast, so his unplanned walk the day before wasn’t dire enough to drag Mycroft away from his work. Relieved, John ate more breakfast than normal and pretended not to notice when Mycroft’s eyebrows showed he’d noticed. The meal passed and Mycroft left, so John had the whole day to himself to think and plan. It would be Saturday’s breakfast that had him starting a conversation. 

“Mycroft, I’ve found something I want to do.” 

Mycroft didn’t read or work at the table, choosing instead to devote all of his attention to eating. This was part of a diet strategy John had been told to offer people in medical school; by thinking about the food you were supposed to feel fuller, quicker. Mycroft seemed to be trying it, though John doubted Mycroft could still his brain enough to think only about one topic at a time. John watched as Mycroft finished chewing and took a drink of tea before replying. 

“I am pleased, as the doctors recommend activities to help you recover.” 

“Right. Well, as you can tell from the blog I started, that’s not really going to help me.” 

Mycroft inclined his head. 

“Thing is, I think I could like the writing if I had something to write about. I want to try writing about the cases I worked with him, um, Sherlock.” They both knew who he was talking about, but another of Ella’s suggestions had been to use the name as much as possible. 

“Are you sure that is wise, John?” 

“Won’t it make me worse, you mean? I thought about that, but I think it’s more important that I have some way of remembering him. We don’t all have eidetic memories like you two, and I’m afraid of forgetting something.” 

“As you have contemplated it, I approve of this activity.” 

John bit back a sarcastic retort. “I’m glad, because I’ll need a few things from you.” 

Mycroft took another sip of his tea before replying. “I have told repeatedly told you that you only have to ask.” 

“This is me, asking.” John forced a grin on his face but let it fade quickly. “I need a new laptop, one that can be disconnected from the internet with a physical switch. I also need it to be hack proof, even by your goons.” 

“John, you realize that many of the restrictions in place are there for your safety.” These words came with a disbelieving eyebrow, but otherwise Mycroft showed no reaction. “The laptop you have now is very secure and more than adequate for your writing efforts.” 

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t know all the things I wrote for the blog and then deleted without posting?” John raised his own disbelieving eyebrow right back at Mycroft. “Or is that key logger for my protection as well?” 

“It is a standard feature put on any electronic devices that go through my division; I will have it removed.” 

“I’d really rather have your word that the new one will be private to me and those who can guess my password.” 

Mycroft carefully didn’t twitch at all, showing no signs of noticing any loopholes. “I believe that sounds reasonable. You have my word that I will provide a new laptop that is up to your specifications.” 

John pushed through to his next need so that he wouldn’t gloat about pulling one over Mycroft. Sherlock had always been able to deduce John’s password, so clearly Mycroft thought he’d be able to as well. Let him try. “I need to go to Baker Street to do my writing.” 

Mycroft’s expression closed down; he wasn’t even pretending to consider it. 

“I know it’s a security risk, though why you’re so protective of me I don’t know, but that’s where I knew Sherlock. I know you’re still paying rent, waiting on me to decide what to do with it all. Not only that, his notes, and mine, are all there. Going through it all this way, reliving it, will allow me to move on, where nothing else will.” 

“I can have all his notes and case files brought here easily enough that I am disinclined to allow this.” 

“Let me write in our flat, before returning here every night, and I will give you a very valuable bit of information.” 

Somewhere between insulted and annoyed, Mycroft only stared at John. It was clear that if it was worth knowing, Mycroft was pretty sure he already knew it. 

“I’ll take your promise on this as well. If I give you my information and you think it’s valuable, you’ll let me use Baker Street as an office. If you don’t agree on the value, then I’ll let you bring all of Sherlock’s stuff here.” John didn’t think Mycroft could refuse that, and he hoped Mycroft wasn’t a big enough liar to claim the information wasn’t of value to him. 

“I agree; I will allow you to work out of 221 B, Baker Street, if your information is valuable to me.” 

“Good. Now, understand, I’ve know this for a while now but I wasn’t sure what you would make of it until recently.” Really recently, like when John noticed that Mycroft came to Sunday lunch because Greg was there. Clearing his throat, John went for it. “Greg Lestrade thinks you are sexy.” 

A faint blush was staining Mycroft’s cheekbones, but otherwise he didn’t answer. 

“His words, the first time it came up, mentioned he wouldn’t throw you out of bed. When Sherlock irritated me, I’d go for a walk or met up with Greg to gripe about him. Several times he asked after you but didn’t want me to set up a date or anything. He thinks an alpha like you could have any omega on the planet, so you wouldn’t want a beta.” John shut up and waited. Matchmaking wasn’t really his thing, but if Sherlock was a big idiot about John desiring him, why wouldn’t his brother be similarly blind? John was kind of counting on Mycroft to have missed Greg’s infatuation. 

“Yes, John, that information is valuable.” Mycroft said at last, his voice almost normal. “I believe you will be able to start working with your new computer and Baker Street office this Monday.” 

“Thank you.” John said, managing not to sound too pleased with his success. “Should I become a little ill just in time for tomorrow’s lunch?” 

“That will not be necessary, though I do not believe you will need to walk the grounds after lunch.” 

“Nope, I’m sure my leg will be acting up then.” John couldn’t remember ever feeling so relaxed around Mycroft, so he sipped his tea and enjoyed it. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Sherlock searched out weaknesses in Moriarty’s web between exhausting sessions of physical therapy. A medical coma might be a good way to avoid crap telly, but most of his muscles had atrophied to some degree. His internet searching muscles were the first to recover. His hospital was in Ystad, Sweden, and he didn’t speak the language, so the crap telly would have been even worse. He might have accidentally learned Swedish, and then had to delete it all when he was healed. 

He knew the location meant that he would be harder to be found by any enemies, but he also knew it would make it harder for John to feel him through the bond. As much of Moriarty’s web was in England, he wondered how Mycroft would prevent John from noticing. Mycroft might send John to another continent, but Sherlock secretly hoped the bond would tell John he was alive. It would save Sherlock from an awkward conversation, and he could blame everything else on Mycroft. For real this time. 

When John was seven months pregnant, he’d been so big they’d given up running through London. John had been slowing down for a while, but at seven months even Sherlock’s long ignored instincts wouldn’t let his pregnant mate hunt killers. John had mumbled about it and only agreed if Sherlock also cut back on the hunting. It seemed John thought he had to protect Sherlock, simply because of the number of times he’d needed to. 

A week of being confined to the flat together was enough to send Mrs. Hudson into a screaming rage at the both of them, so Sherlock had to adjust. He was allowed on Lestrade’s cases only if he was in sight of Lestrade at all times. Lestrade gleefully snitched on him, texting John at the slightest bending of this rule. Even a genius should be allowed to pee on his own. 

As John entered his eighth month, Sherlock had been dragged into a meeting with Mycroft. Admittedly, the meeting would have been much shorter if Sherlock had let Mycroft talk, but he was in the mood for a good argument. It was the usual offer about working with Mycroft, but now with the specific goal of destroying Moriarty’s resilient web. It also came with a time frame, promising Sherlock he could walk away when John was ready to run the streets again. 

He was still debating taking Mycroft up on his longwinded offer when he’d walked into the flat. Begging forgiveness for being incommunicado hadn’t worked, so he’d blamed Mycroft. Told John about the offer and asked John’s opinion. That had worked so well Sherlock made a mental note to ask John about other major decisions. Not just as a diversionary tactic, but also because John’s light conduction properties extended to these things as well. That reunion had gone well, giving Sherlock hope for the next. 

He thought of John and their reunion pretty much anytime his brain wasn’t focused on the case. Sometime he would think of the child, but not as often as he thought of John. He knew this was callous, and maybe a bit psychopathic, but he felt what he felt. Maybe he wasn’t the sociopath he claimed, but clearly there was something wrong with him. He hadn’t even gotten properly angry at Mycroft since he woke him up with the news of his death. 

Mycroft had an end goal, one of his multilayered plans, but Sherlock couldn’t see it. It might have been alpha instincts, but part of him insisted that Mycroft wanted John for his own. The rest of Sherlock wasn’t sure and looked for another reason for Mycroft’s actions. He needed more data to really unravel Mycroft’s plan. For now, Sherlock let himself fall asleep, exhausted from the physical therapy, and dream of running through London with John. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

The first week back at the flat, John spent more time staring at everything than writing. He carried his new laptop back and forth and locked it in his bedroom whenever he was at Mycroft’s. John didn’t really expect Mycroft to figure out his password, but he had to give the appearance of keeping the computer safe. Slowly though, John was beginning to write. It was slow going with his typing method but he was motivated. 

What references he needed that weren’t on Sherlock’s shelves among the medical texts, were hidden under the loose floorboard in bedroom. That had been Sherlock’s hiding place because he believed he could convince anyone that found it that it belonged to Mrs. Hudson or a previous lodger. He couldn’t fool John, who took to reading passages out loud to entice Sherlock into bedding him. Almost forty alpha-omega bodice rippers were stored in that small space. 

John did work on typing up reports of his cases with Sherlock, he hadn’t lied about that. Those required agonizing effort and focus, as he searched for the proper way to describe the indescribable Sherlock. He worked on those at the end of his day, when common words had been wrung from him by the romance stuff. Those tawdry words seem to come faster than he could type, even though it wasn’t anything he enjoyed reading anymore. 

John had read his fair share of bodice rippers before he presented, as his Mum left them in the bog. John’s first masturbatory episode had been to one of those overly descriptive yet vague sex scenes; he was a teenage boy and could come if the wind blew too hard. Then he’d found real porn, which was much more interesting until he presented. After realizing he was an omega, his sexual nature had been something to fight against and control. 

Now here he was, in clear view of forty years old, and writing the things. He knew his sex scenes were a little more realistic and a great deal more helpful than anything he’d ever read in them. Maybe this was a stupid idea, but it was the only one he had at the moment. If he lacked the ability to end his life, he might as well try to find something useful to do with the time he had left. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Mycroft’s minions had set up this hotel and identity, so the hotel was posh and the identity was rich. These things attracted attention, so Sherlock was already making plans to get rid of both as soon as he’d finished his business here. There wasn’t supposed to be much running around in this case, so he could walk around with the cane until his limp went away. Hopefully, he’d be taken as a posh twat using the cane as an accessory instead of a broken man who needed it. The strange part was the amused twist of his lips Mycroft got every time he saw the cane. 

The Caribbean was a tropical paradise when you were by the ocean, but a few miles into Haiti and you were in a sauna. Sherlock’s skin wouldn’t thank him for stripping down to minimal clothing, so he stayed with the expensive clothing and fancy hotel this identity provided him. Near nudity would also expose the little wound at the back of his neck, with a lump under the bandage. A Swedish surgeon had installed it just before Sherlock was due to be released. Mycroft had watched the surgery, after carefully explaining it was a reversible process that would block his mental bond with John. Sherlock would have fought it, if this whole thing hadn’t been to get back to a safe John as quickly as possible. 

Inside his suite, he took a long moment to glare at the enormous bed. The Royal Oasis Hotel in Petion-Ville wasn’t the poshiest hotel he’d ever been in, but in such a poor country it was opulent. His target was a corrupt government official, so he’d need to be rich to attract the man’s attention. Still, he was mentally comparing the room and king size bed to the inn he’d stayed at with John, in Dartmoor. This hotel was much nicer, having all the modern features a traveler could need. 

Dartmoor had offered a slanted roof over the bed, so Sherlock had to sleep with his head on the foot of the bed to keep from sitting up and slamming his head into the ceiling. There had also been a major draft from the old-fashioned window, and a string to pull to start the shower. But there had also been poisoning Lestrade’s coffee with infected sugar, and a pregnant omega snapping orders on a military base and getting respect. Lestrade had gotten a leg over with their client’s shrink, and John had slowly, carefully, worked the fear out of Sherlock’s body with caresses and promises of the future. Sherlock had woken John up the next morning by saying one word and confusing the darling man. 

“Wha?” John had muttered before heading for the loo. The morning sickness was long gone, replaced by a bladder the size of a pea. He came back a bit more awake, but no less confused. “What did you say?” 

“Hope. I think it would be a good name.” 

“Baby’s a boy, and he’d get his arse kicked for what’s traditionally a girl’s name.” John had snuggled up to Sherlock despite disagreeing with the name choice. 

“So we find a boy version, like from that movie you watch when you eat jello and onions.” 

_“Star Wars?”_ John skipped straight over the comment on his weird food cravings, which they privately attributed to Moriarty’s genetic influence on the child; he went for the movie Sherlock was referencing. John had no idea why he liked to watch those movies, particularly Episode 4, when he was hormonal. “You want to name the kid Han Solo?” 

“And you thought Hope would get his arse kicked.” Sherlock rolled his eyes in a loving way he’d invented just for John. “A New Hope; that’s the name of that movie.” 

“I think that’s supposed to reference how Luke Skywalker is a new hope in the fight against evil.” 

“Exactly, and this new life has all our hopes for being better than his genetics.” 

“So this is your roundabout way of suggesting Luke for a name?” 

“We could go French, with Jean-Luc.” 

“No, then we’d be mixing fandoms and like crossing the streams, you reserve that for emergencies.” 

Sherlock had blinked and sorted through his mind palace for a long moment before conceding. “What?” 

“Sorry, luv, should have known you wouldn’t get that. Jean-Luc Picard is from _Star Trek_ , and crossing the streams is a reference to _Ghostbusters_. Never mind. I’m just not sure about this kick you have for naming to poor bloke after me. Being named after your omega mother is another good way to be punished by bullies.” 

“You keep bringing that up, as if we weren’t going to teach him baritsu and military tactics before he even made it to school.” 

John laughed, acknowledging that as a fair point. A laughing John was just about ready to agree with Sherlock, and they both knew it, so Sherlock’s grin was understandable. 

“So, Jean-Luc?” Sherlock asked, pleased that he’d found a way, long and roundabout as it was, to get John to name the child after him. No part of Sherlock was convinced that the name John was all it would take to combat the insanity of Moriarty in the child, or so he constantly told himself. 

“Convince me.” John said, voice a little closer to Sherlock’s range than normal. 

Sherlock had gladly complied, taking advantage of his lover’s hormones while he could. 

They’d stayed an extra day in Dartmoor and walked away with a name for their child. That drafty English inn couldn’t compete in luxuriousness, but it had sheltered John for a while and would always be better in Sherlock’s eye. 

Shaking the comparison away, Sherlock shifted into character before going to get the attention of a corrupt official. This man has several million dollars to his name in the banks the rest of the government knew about, so he could easily be the moneyman behind Moran’s contract. Only one way to find out, so Oliver Wilkes brushed dust off his linen suit and went to find out whom to bribe to get the mineral rights to parts of the island. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

John wasn’t an idiot, nor was his convinced of his own superiority. As such, he knew he needed someone to help him with this plan, so he had Mrs. Hudson go out and buy him a couple of thumb drives. Putting a copy of his bodice ripper on each one, he then used Mrs. Hudson’s phone to invite Molly to a Friday tea. 

She was confused but polite, and easily fell into conversation with Mrs. Hudson. They were about to call it a day when John spoke, as if it was an afterthought. 

“Right, I have a favor to ask of you two.” He continued before they could reassure him of their well-meaning offers of assistance. “I wrote something and I would like you two to read it. When you’re done, we’ll have tea and talk about it some more. Please, just keep it a secret until then.” 

Handing out the drives and hugs, John escaped quickly into the waiting car. He was very nervous and hoped Mycroft didn’t pick up on it; he wasn’t ready to explain. Fortunately, Anthea was babysitting him at breakfast for the next few days, as Mycroft was out of town on business. Once John found out if his idea was going to work or not, then he’d be able to fight with Mycroft about it. Until then, he’d keep plugging away Sherlock’s stories. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


	2. Bodice Rippers of Intent

It turned out to be a long weekend for John as he waited for some word of how his friends had taken his novel. For the first time, Mrs. Hudson called in and begged to be excused from Saturday tea. She said it was a slight head cold, and John knew he was being observed, so he didn’t dare ask if she’d felt up to reading any of his work. His plan wouldn’t work at all if he couldn’t get people to read what he’d written, so he told Mrs. Hudson it was all fine and he’d see her soon. 

Lestrade came for Sunday lunch and was noticeably disappointed that Mycroft wasn’t there. John had rolled his eyes and said something about shitting or getting off the pot, and Greg had fallen off his chair laughing. For all he agreed with John, Greg was never going to actually ask Mycroft out; convinced the alpha could do much better. John had no idea what had dragged Mycroft away, nor if the man would ever get around to actually asking Greg out. Greg and John had a good visit, watched some telly, and then John was alone again. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Sherlock stared at the unconscious man at his feet, sipped a bottle of tepid water, and thought about John. It was strange how much easier it had been to think around John, making his brilliance brighter and his cases more fun. Since John couldn’t be here now, Sherlock thought of him in hopes that some of that focus was transferable. It had been thinking of the kidnapped banker case that led Sherlock to this suspect. As such, he felt it was alright to relive what had happened after that case as he waited for his suspect to come around. 

The grateful banker had given him a gift, something Sherlock didn’t need and would have deleted. John had been beside him, coaching him on the appropriate response, which wasn’t, apparently, to deduce the gift without opening it. John had found a use for the ornate tie pin, one that Sherlock had made several backup copies of in his mind palace. 

John had been allowed to leave the press conference early, as he was known to be pregnant and Lestrade found it easier to hide his longing when John was out of sight. Beta Lestrade wanted kids, but as John had told Sherlock, he also wanted a loving, committed relationship like they had. Lestrade’s beta wife had slept with any alpha who would have her for years before she finally left Lestrade for one. Only death, or near death and a need to protect the other, would ever separate Sherlock and John. Sherlock had some trouble believing that at times, knowing John could do so much better, until he’d made it home that night. 

He’d called for John, closing the door and taking off his coat, only to look up and see John. He had his back against the kitchen doorway, swollen belly outlined in the kitchen light. All he was wearing was his three ties, held together by tie pins and worn around his belly. The one on the front hung from his inverted belly button to hang, loin-cloth like, down to hide his penis. That tie had Sherlock’s new diamond tie pin in the proper place, adding weight so when John moved it would swing and glitter noticeably. He did move, it did draw Sherlock’s attention, and John faced Sherlock to smirk at him. 

“Care to deduce the sex of the baby?” 

Tie pins made for easily removable clothing, Sherlock found, as he went to his knees before John. Even though they’d know the gender for a while, it was still an intriguing distraction. It was his tie pin on his omega, his John that made Sherlock accept both gifts that he’d been given by life. Sentimentality was strange, but worth it. Sherlock set to kissing and licking the baby bump and John’s penis, determined to kick John into a microheat. From the way John was groaning at the attention, he seemed to agree with the unvoiced objective. 

Except the groan was coming from the man under Sherlock, a man who was a beta, and not a wriggly John in heat. Finishing his water, Sherlock returned to business. In the case of the kidnapped banker, it had been his underling who wanted free access to the bank vault for a little while and amateurishly went about getting it. That guy had needed the consulting criminal to make his crime work, but even with Moriarty, Sherlock thought he’d have figured it out. This guy, Randal Stevens, had been a bit smarter about it, almost Mycroftian. 

Stevens had been more than happy to let Moriarty’s network set up accounts in his boss’s name, and to let him take the fall for being corrupt. The politician was stupid enough to let his personal assistant set up his bank accounts and passwords, and clueless as to why he was suspected of corruption. Almost as soon as the money was put in though, Stevens would break it apart, take out his commission, and send it where Moriarty wanted it. He’d done this for Moriarty, Moran, and would continue to do it until the money stopped coming in. His commission had been enough to make him very rich, so it was possible he was the moneyman. 

Stevens woke with a snarl, thrashed about in his bindings for a while, so Sherlock let him. When he’d calmed down enough to get a good look at his surroundings, the catwalk inside an huge warehouse deemed structurally unsound after an earthquake. When he was quiet, Sherlock dropped the empty water bottle over the side of the catwalk and stared at his captive until they heard the bottle finally thump onto the ruined concrete floor. 

Stevens scoffed. “You don’t scare me. You’re Sherlock Holmes and you’re such a failure as an alpha your omega had to protect you. Guess you had to fake your death to get away from that controlling bitch, huh?” 

Sherlock laughed; he’d missed that ignorant reaction, so he decided to play with it. “Such a tough little beta you are, even though you have no idea what you’re talking about. Letting John kill and maim those who went against me was merciful, compared to what I’d do to them if given the chance. I had to fake my death to get the chance to do that, and you’re my first victim.” 

Stevens swallowed heavily, his surety deserting him. 

“Now, tell me about the price on my children’s heads. Even a beta should know not to mess with an alpha’s offspring.” 

“I don’t know anything about that.” 

“I find that hard to believe, as everybody knows all about it. People who never dealt with Moriarty or Moran know about it. In case you haven’t figured it out, I know about it. I just have one tiny question, and a correct answer to that question will get you out of that thing with the maggots I’ve wanted to try.” 

Stevens shuddered in his bindings. Most people responded that way to maggots, though Sherlock had never understood why, so he knew it was a good, general threat. 

“Tell me, who pays out?” 

Stevens laughed, though it was strained. “That’s what you want to know? Not why the contract is still good even though you’re supposed to be dead?” 

“From the information I saw, it was kind of obvious, at least to a genius like me. The text said John’s children were in danger, with no mention of the alpha.” Sherlock shrugged casually, as if that point didn’t bother him at all, knowing that John’s life would go on. Kind of the point of all this, was that John’s life went on, even if the alpha with him wasn’t Sherlock. Even if it was Mycroft, though Sherlock would probably try the maggot thing with Mycroft if he bonded with John. “So, the moneyman?” 

“I’m just a launderer; not my division.” Stevens dared to smirk at Sherlock. 

Sherlock pulled Stevens to his feet, grabbing the rope out of Steven’s eyesight as he did. With efficient movements, Sherlock showed Stevens the hangman’s noose and slipped it over his neck. Stevens swallowed repeatedly as Sherlock tightened the rope to a proper fit. 

“While I was recovering from my fall,” Sherlock mentioned casually, “I found hundreds of leads into Moriarty’s network. Once I was mobile again, I thought some time in a warm place would do me good, so I came to ask you my questions. So, here’s a question for you. I fell without a rope, but if you fall with this rope, will you have the same chance to recover as I did?” 

Stevens glanced over the side of the catwalk, so Sherlock shoved him face first against the railing; all the better to see the drop. Stevens rallied, found a reserve of spine Sherlock wouldn’t have expected, or maybe it was just ignorance. 

“You wouldn’t, the threat’s not even against your kids, so I’m not going to tell you.” 

Sherlock went with ignorance, and hauled Stevens up and over the railing. He screamed for a short while, until the rope at his waist caught him and crushed all the air out of his lungs as it stopped his plummet. Sherlock waited until his breathing wasn’t quite as labored before speaking. 

“That rope around your waist is your last chance; I remove it and this warehouse gets a chandelier.” 

“I’m just a middleman, I get my instructions by computer. I didn’t even pick out the politician I’d be working for! My boss, Colin Ryan, sends me orders from Canada; it’s all on my computer. The one at my house, in my safe, pull me up and I’ll open the safe, give you the password and disappear. You’ll never see me again, I’ll take my money and go straight, care for orphans and become a priest.” 

“I can smell your urine soaked sincerity from here, the problem is such deathbed, or death-catwalk if you will, confessions don’t seem to stick. I’ve already figured out you work passwords so I don’t think breaking into your home safe will present a challenge. Besides, you know who I am, and I can’t have my identity blown this early in my death.” 

Stevens began to beg and make more promises, but Sherlock closed his eyes, thought of John and pulled the security rope. It untied from the railing and slipped into the space below. Sherlock went back down the way he’d come, trying not to think about how hangings worked. The quick drop was to snap the neck; otherwise the person suffered a slow death by suffocation. He’d known that when he’d set up this interrogation method that took away the quick death by sharp drop. The choking noises followed him out of the warehouse, and for the rest of his life. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Monday brought rain, so when Mrs. Hudson met John at the front door, he was under an umbrella held by his driver, Paul. Charlie hadn’t been seen since John escaped him, but Mycroft said it was a demotion, not a disappearance. The bodyguard that dropped John off always came in and looked around the flat before letting John go up, leaving him guarded by Mrs. Hudson at the foot of the stairs. She seemed healthy and particularly happy this morning, but they kept their conversation bland. She’d come talk to him after the Paul left, or so John hoped. This waiting for approval of his writing was getting to him. 

He’d received decent marks in school assignments, and on essays or reports he’d had to write, but that was very different than fiction. It had also occurred to him, during the long nights of the weekend, that Mrs. Hudson and Molly, for all their support and intelligence, might not understand how much his writing meant to him. He couldn’t compare it to a child without bringing up sorrow and regret for Jean-Luc, but it was important to him. He needed to know if it was terrible writing or a stupid idea, but all the same he had high hopes for his little story. 

Paul called for John to come up, and he did with a nod at Mrs. Hudson. Entering his real home, John set up his laptop as he waited for Paul to leave. Paul would check in with Mrs. Hudson, see if she’d seen or heard anything weird, and then leave. In the meantime, John read through what he’d written about Sherlock. Time moved the fastest when he was lost in his memories and he jerked out of the past at Mrs. Hudson’s knock. She was still smiling, so John smiled back. 

“Dear, my hip isn’t up to bringing lunch up the stairs. Would you mind joining me in my flat for lunch?” 

“No problem, Mrs. Hudson.” John put his computer to sleep so the next person to open it would encounter the password screen and stood. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed and he was slightly stiff. A quick stretch and he followed her down the stairs. “You know, you don’t have to make me lunch at all. I could take you out every day and it wouldn’t put a dent in Mycroft’s money.” 

“Oh, I’m too much of a homebody and you know it, but thank you, dear.” 

By the time they’d finished lying to each other, they were in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. They both knew that if John wanted to go out to eat, Mycroft had to plan it weeks in advance so he could put appropriate security precautions in place. John knew Mrs. Hudson needed to make him lunch, needed someone to do for every once in a while. He also knew Mrs. Hudson darted in and out of her home like a sparrow, decidedly not a homebody. She popped out to the store once a day, returned, and left for the library, or a tea shop. She had a book club, a cooking class, gentlemen callers, four sisters, bridge nights and poker tournaments. Mrs. Hudson did spend time in her flat, but she loved the freedom of being a widow, grateful to Sherlock for every second. 

She’d laid out three places on her dining table, but shook her head at John’s questioning look. Slipping into her kitchen, she returned with a small device Sherlock had given her, and taught her how to use. John made inane comments about how good it smelled and how lovely the place settings were; general background noise in case someone was listening. 

John had never heard why Sherlock thought Mrs. Hudson would need an electronic listening device detector, but he was glad she had it. Most of the time, their conversations weren’t important, but she still checked regularly anyway. From her path today, John figured she was going anywhere Paul had gone. The edge of the lamp did produce a tiny bug, which Mrs. Hudson deftly slipped into a plastic bag and into the freezer. Another minute of searching and she seemed satisfied, pocketing the detector just as the back door opened. John trusted Mrs. Hudson, but he still picked up a steak knife and turned to face the back door. 

Molly hurried through, a huge smile on her face as she came to hug John. 

He kept the knife behind his back until she pulled back and turned away, then he put it back on the table. 

“It’s all clear, dears.” Mrs. Hudson informed both of them. “Take your seats.” 

They sat, and John managed to hold out until there was food on all their plates. “Molly, not that I’m unhappy to see you, but what are you doing here? Don’t you have to work?” 

“My lunch hour, plus a little. Told them I had a doctor’s appointment, and I sort of do, since you’re a doctor.” She smiled demurely at that, and John grinned. 

“And what seems to be the problem?” John asked in his best doctor’s voice. 

Both women giggled, so John gave a small smile back. 

“John, dear, I wasn’t sick this weekend.” Mrs. Hudson spoke first. “I had a book I had to finish reading.” 

“As soon as I was done, I called Mrs. Hudson to ask about the book, from our very special book club.” Molly said. “Agreed to lunch on Monday to discuss it properly.” 

“You both seem happy, so I’m guessing it wasn’t that bad?” 

“It was wonderful, John! We both agreed; we couldn’t wait to find out what you had in mind for it.” Molly said. 

“What do you mean?” 

“John, dear, don’t think so poorly of us.” Mrs. Hudson smiled to take the sting out of her words. “That book was subtle, but clearly seditious. The alphas don’t want omegas, or even betas, to have the information in that book. You wrote it with that in mind, and we’re going to help you.” 

“Mrs. Hudson, Molly, I appreciate that. But as you said, it’s illegal. A rebellion in prose. Anybody who had anything to do with that book will probably go to jail, or be forcibly bonded, Molly. They’ll chemically induce a heat and bond me to Mycroft, and with his position he’ll have to prevent me from doing anything similar again. I can’t risk that for the two of you.” 

“That’s why we agreed not to give you a choice in the matter.” Molly said. “I can’t find a mate on my own, so at least with a forced bonding I’ll get the children I want.” 

She shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal, though they all knew better. 

“I’m an old beta, whose husband was an abusive mass murderer. What do they think they could do to me? Put me in prison with ‘three hots and a cot,’ I believe the saying is, and all the gossip I can handle?” 

John bit back a laugh at that, and remembered Sherlock mocking him for signaling his agreement by laughing. A moment of closed eyes, and John forced himself back to the present. 

“Fine, but these are the rules. If anybody comes after you for this, you will tell them my name. You will tell them I forced you to help. I’m a rogue omega with army training, so it makes sense that you would be scared of me. Remember that and use it. Agreed?” 

“No one who has ever met you will believe it, so I’ll give it a go.” Mrs. Hudson said, toasting him with her teacup. 

“Only because the very next thing I would do would be to call and warn you.” Molly said, picking up her teacup. 

“Agreed.” John held out his teacup, and they toasted each other before drinking. After the mandatory refills, John set out to explain his idea. “Alphas get to do what they want because they hold all the knowledge. The internet has really made a difference in most areas, as information on every topic is available somewhere, except omegas. All the porn is even a confirmation of every stupid thing alphas want us to believe.” 

Molly flushed, as embarrassed as if she’d been caught watching the stuff, not just hearing it mentioned. 

“It is a conspiracy of sorts. They didn’t sit down and plan it; instead they just enjoy and continue the status quo, not knowing how miserable it is. For everybody really, not just the omegas. Betas would be happier if they weren’t treated as inferior, omegas would be better off if treated as fully human, and I think alphas would be happier with omegas that were real equals instead of breeders.” 

“Here, here.” Mrs. Hudson said. 

“There are some aspects of a real conspiracy to it, as they crack down on any information about omegas that leaks out onto the internet with more effort than anything else. But they say that’s just because of the laws that are already in place. My thought was that nobody cares about books anymore, because they are too busy with e-books and the internet.” 

“Not to mention no alpha would be caught dead reading a bodice ripper.” Molly added. 

“Very true,” Mrs. Hudson said, while nodding wisely. “Which is why we’ll have to make the cover as lurid and ridiculous as possible.” 

“Cover?” 

“Naturally, John. You’ll have to have a book cover, with unrealistic models and stupid poses.” 

“Right.” John agreed, kind of horrified by this aspect of his idea, one he hadn’t even thought about. 

“One of Mrs. Turner’s married ones is a photographer.” Mrs. Hudson said, voice all business instead of gossipy. “Since he’s a neighbor, we could get him to do the pictures with some silly story or other about it being for charity. He’d still charge, but he wouldn’t care about the work and feel the need to claim it if he sees it in a store. He’s a real artist, just you ask him.” 

“One of the guys who review my papers before I send them in to scientific journals has contacts in the publishing industry and omega rights activities.” Molly offered, without a blush in sight. “I’m sure he’d help, or be able to put us in contact with people who will.” 

“That’s a great idea, Molly, but I was just going to self-publish and buy a bunch of private copies with Sherlock’s money. Vanity press gets to be good for something and we can hand out free copies of these books all over the world.” 

“Don’t be silly, John. You could make money off of these, and use that money to help omegas even more.” Mrs. Hudson sternly delivered this exciting news. 

“Do you really think people would buy them?” John asked. 

“Absolutely.” Molly confirmed, firmly. “Besides, if you give an omega a free book, the alpha will immediately be possessive and jealous. They’d be more likely to destroy the book outright then read it to see what you were telling the omega. If it looks like a tawdry romance novel from a grocer, they won’t have any problems with the omega having it. And if the omega does leave or something, the book will get donated to a charity shop and passed to the next omega.” 

“Fine.” John agreed, unable to fight such logic. “It’s all fine; we’ll try and publish it.” 

“We’ll work on that while you write the next one.” Molly said with a firm nod. 

“What?” 

“The more books there are, the greater the chances that the synopsis will make different people buy the book.” 

“Molly’s right. Besides, you’ll need to do different couples, like a female alpha and male omega. Oh, and definitely a male alpha and male omega couple. You’re so rare that there are very few good books about that and most of the sex tends to be vague and misleading.” 

John and Molly stared at Mrs. Hudson for a long moment, wondering just how much of her research had been done this weekend. 

“I think I can write a few more.” John finally said. “It will just take some time.” 

“John, dear, please don’t take this the wrong way.” Mrs. Hudson started, and offered him a smile. “It’ll go quicker if you write it down and I type it up for you.” 

John laughed. 

“Thing is, I had to borrow Mrs. Turner’s laptop to read your book. It was alright as she was out of town this weekend, but I can’t expect her to let me use it every day.” 

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll leave my laptop here. I’ll sometimes use it when I’m here, to write up Sherlock’s cases, because I’m not ready for anybody else to see those, but the rest of the time you can have at it.” John smiled apologetically. “I apologize for not remembering that, before I gave you the drive. I could have printed it out for you.” 

“It’s fine, dear. I’ve planned on getting one since I took that class, the introduction to computers for the aged, just haven’t bothered.” Mrs. Hudson waved away John’s concerns and apology. “Just write down the password and show me the program you want the words typed into.” 

“The password is: password.” 

“That’s terribly insecure.” Molly said. 

“Inviting people to steal your work.” Mrs. Hudson agreed. 

“Maybe,” countered John. “But I was always coming up with ever more complex passwords to try and keep Sherlock out of the laptop he bought me. He always figured them out, eventually, and I figured Mycroft would be able to as well. I thought that a simple, obvious password would trip him up the most.” 

Molly giggled, while Mrs. Hudson smiled indulgently before speaking. 

“Dear Dr. Watson. It was unfair, how little time you got to spend with our Sherlock. But I know he’d be proud of what you’re doing, amazed at the risks you’ll take to protect other people, and confused by how much you make him feel. Never doubt how much he loved you.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I do remember, but sometimes I don’t believe me.” 

“Lovely.” Molly said, voice sounding on the verge of tears even as she tried for businesslike. “But let’s not get distracted; we have a lurid cover to design.” 

John grabbed for the distraction. “He’s a rich London businessman and she’s a beautiful omega on the run from the Chinese Mob. So I guess he should be huge and muscular to her tiny and delicate. What else do we need?” 

“We need an author’s name!” Molly said, eyes wide as the thought occurred to her. “We certainly can’t use yours.” 

“I was just going to go with Miss Kitty.” 

“Kitty would be fine, but the Miss Kitty might attract the wrong kind of attention.” 

“So we need a last name; Kitty who? Kitty Hawke?” John suggested. 

“Riley.” Mrs. Hudson said, slightly smirking. 

“Pardon?” Molly asked first. 

“Kitty Riley. Don’t worry, none of the family is named Kitty, but the family needs a bit of comeuppance. American family, probably an offshoot of some Irish O’Riley’s, but they are very vocal in their alpha superiority efforts. Might even get a few alpha’s buying these books for their omegas if they think they support that family.” 

“Mrs. Hudson, that’s devilish.” Molly said, but she was grinning. 

“I like it.” John added. “You always surprise me; no wonder Sherlock loved you too, Mrs. Hudson.” 

“Oh, hush. We’ve work to do.” Mrs. Hudson said, but she looked pleased. “I’ll get a stuff to draw an outline with and refresh the tea.” 

She returned shortly with a set of expensive drawing pencils and a half used artist’s drawing pad. John figured Mrs. Hudson had taken an art class at some point and let her do the sketching. By the time Molly had to return to work, they’d an indecent image and a plan for getting the book published. That night, John slept well. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Sherlock was beginning to loath the calendar app on mobiles and computers. Before John, he’d ignored them and time in general. The time was always either a time of boredom or time for an experiment or case. The actual time was only important when used to calculate rates of decay or determine how long a body had been exposed before found. Sherlock ate when his transport demanded it and he didn’t have a distracting puzzle. He slept and pissed at the same schedule of transportation necessity, but that was before John. 

With John, Sherlock was counting the days until delivery, planning for the future, making sure John ate by eating with him, and generally cherishing every moment spent together. After John, Sherlock learned to hate the time that dared to pass without John by his side. The calendar feature on all mobiles now pointed out something terrible. It had been a year since his death, a year of two living men mourning for each other. 

Technically, on this side of the International Date Line, his actual death day was tomorrow, but it wasn’t as if jumping on a few more planes would keep this date from ever happening. Instead, Sherlock was going to have to live through it twice, as indications were his contact would give him his next destination today, and probabilities were good that it was on the other side of the Date Line. 

He was in Tokyo, trying to blend in with the other limo drivers waiting at the embassy doors for the trade summit to break up. His contact would be on the steps at 18:43 local time, and Sherlock would have to swoop in and be the limo at his beck and call. Fortunately, many people in Tokyo smoked, even knowing how bad it was for them. Bumming cigarettes in a language he was only passing familiar with was good practice, and kept him entertained. 

A large crowd seemed to come out at about the right time, but when the crowd parted at exactly the right time to let Sherlock see his contact, he knew who it was before he saw him. It was only with a lifetime of acting skill that Sherlock kept from snarling or sniffing Mycroft as he held the door open for him. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Sherlock fought with himself to pull out slowly, casually, instead of throwing around decorative gravel at high speeds. Halfway to the prearranged destination, Sherlock lowered the divider window between the front and back seats. 

“Why are you here if John’s in so much danger?” 

“Brother dear, that’s hardly the protocol for establishing contact.” 

“If I was compromised, I’d use the protocol and you’d understand why. Same as you, brother dear.” Sherlock snarled back, knowing Mycroft wouldn’t have lectured him about protocol if it was important. 

“True enough, but these things exist for a reason. It is important that I keep up appearances, going about my duties, so the people threatening John do not realize we know about those threats.” 

“Is this what you dropped into Japan like an extra-large Godzilla to tell me?” 

“Is that a popular culture reference, brother?” 

“John got movie cravings during his pregnancy.” Sherlock admitted, mostly to the traffic in front of them. “How is he?” 

“Better. He’s sleeping again and has stopped losing weight. His project is doing more than keeping him occupied and I thought it might be time to tell you what it is.” 

“What’s the price for that snippet of information?” 

“Consider it an early death-day present, brother. One you will get after the car is safely in park.” 

“You think I can’t control the car and my emotional reactions at the same time?” 

“John did make you surprisingly sentimental.” 

“Takes more courage to be sentimental than to hold a certain detective inspector at arm’s length.” 

“Ah, but we both know what courage is, don’t we?” 

“John taught me a new definition, one I infinitely prefer over yours.” 

There was a long enough silence from the backseat for Sherlock to know he’d won a point there. 

“Is this the lucky residence that gets to try and feed your gullet at the expense of third world nations?” Sherlock asked, even though he knew it was the address he’d been given. 

“How skillful of you to have found it. Pull my window up to the gate so I can enter the security code.” 

If Mycroft had tried to turn down the condescension in his tone, Sherlock might have done as he asked. Instead, Sherlock pulled up and put in the code himself, smirking as the gate slid open so he could pull the limo into the sheltered driveway. 

Mycroft sighed, but made no other comment on the stunt. “Would you like to sniff me, Sherlock?” 

The offer was too tempting and perfectly in line with Sherlock’s alpha instincts. The car was barely in park before Sherlock was half through the gap, sniffing at his brother like a wild thing. Expensive, English, ink and spice, but with subtle hints of Lestrade and not a sniff of John. Sherlock almost sobbed out loud as he accepted what his senses were telling him: Mycroft hadn’t bonded to John. 

“I keep telling you that John is not my objective, but your sentimentality is overriding your logic.” 

“What logical reason then could you have for taking care of John through this? Or even forcing me to play dead? And why did you work so hard to keep John from me before he was taken?” Sherlock’s questions could have gone on, but Mycroft’s sly smile was discombobulating. 

“Did you wish to hear about John’s project?” 

Mycroft had dangled that piece of information over Sherlock’s head for more than six months now, and Sherlock saw the value of getting one solid answer out of the frustrating man. Sherlock made every cell of his body show his annoyance though, slouching into the seat and rolling his eyes. 

“John is writing his memoirs. Not, as one might suppose, of his days as an omega in hiding, a field surgeon, a decorated soldier, or even an assassin. John is writing up the cases he experienced with you.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes to marvel at that and watch a wave of sentimentality wash through his mind palace as he tried to store it in John’s wing. By the time he opened his eyes again, Mycroft had left the car. He’d left behind a file and a paperback book, the only signs he’d even been there. Oddly enough, the book had been read by a careful person, suggesting Mycroft had read it and not just left it as a tease to his brother. Mycroft had teased his brother ever since the first time he’d found the seven year old reading an abused trashy novel. 

The cover showed a large, clearly alpha male with a wild swath of dark hair, holding a tiny blond omega male in a bridal carry. The omega was looking up at him with adoring eyes, instead of the annoyed glare John had used whenever Sherlock tried it. John also had more muscle, even when pregnant, than the omega on the cover, but Sherlock still pocketed Kitty Riley’s book as he returned the car to the motor pool. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Mrs. Hudson and Molly did their best, holding a party for four people in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. Greg had been told it was a wake, but he didn’t want to talk about Sherlock. With Greg there, Molly, John, and Mrs. Hudson couldn’t talk about the books. The next one planned was about a female alpha and female omega, a collaboration between John and Molly, but they couldn’t work on it with Greg there. So the four of them sat around and got quietly drunk. 

John pocketed three bottles of cheap vodka in his laptop bag and left at his regular time. He was sure they were going to talk about him after he left, in a good way. Talk about how he was dealing with everything since Sherlock or whatever, but John was glad the silence would be over. Maybe Greg and Molly would even become more than friends, since Mycroft was letting the beta get away. Molly would be good for anybody who deserved her; she was smart, kind, caring and devoted. After four margaritas, John couldn’t see why anyone would be with a red headed weasel and his umbrella. 

A weasel who had just returned from some trip abroad, if the luggage John tripped over in the hallway was any indication. He was glad his bottles didn’t rattle too loudly, so he was able to make it up to his room and deposit them without interference. They gleamed prettily in his desk drawer, those bottles to drown memories. John sat and considered opening one before supper, but wasn’t sure if he could get away with being any drunker under Mycroft’s eye. 

During his deep thinking process, John caught a little bit of sleep. He was roused by the soft sound of the dinner bell. It was actually a chime that tripped lightly out of hidden speakers in his room. He wondered if they rang it even if he was at the table before time to ring it. That question would be drowned in the alcohol still in his system as he limped down to eat. Mycroft joined him in the dining room and wrinkled his weasely nose at John, as if he could smell the alcohol metabolizing. 

“Fuck off, ‘Croft.” John was on his feet and yelling before he realized it. “I’m not preggers and an alpha’d be expected to drink away the smell of his dead love. I don’t care about your dis… dis.” 

“Disappointment?” Mycroft asked calmly. 

“That. Right. You’ve been that since Sherlock found me, tried so hard to force us apart. Did you kill your brother just so I couldn’t have him? Is that why you won’t go after Greg, you want your alpha brother more and fuck me for snagging him with my omegapussy?” 

“Must I point out that as a male omega you do not in fact have an omegapussy?” 

The word ‘omegapussy’ from Mycroft’s posh mouth knocked John’s knees out of commission, and he slid into his chair at the table. 

“I quite agree, John.” Mycroft said as if John’s drunk rant hadn’t happened. “Eating something will make you feel better.” 

A silent server appeared, placing dishes before each man and uncovering them with a flourish. He left just as quietly, and Mycroft sniffed the food before speaking. 

“In fact, after you have eaten your meal, I will answer your question. Provided you can remember it.” 

Rage boiled back up in John, but he used it to fight the effects of the alcohol. He didn’t know if Mycroft’s answer would be the complete truth, but he’d lived here long enough to know there was truth in all of Mycroft’s words. John ate as much as he dared, and held on to his question. When Mycroft used his napkin for a finally, unnecessary, dab at his mouth, John asked a little more politely. 

“Mycroft, why did you work so hard to separate Sherlock and me, after we first bonded?” 

“I separated the two of you because of how highly I valued you. Not, before you ask, in an attempt to get you back into my service. Sherlock has always been a priority situation, but one I was unable to successfully resolve. I was rather put out by the derailment of two unconnected plans of action, after I overcame the distress of having lost a brother to your charms, but I saw immediately how you could be the solution that I have searched for.” 

“What? You though I could fix Sherlock, by not being with him?” John felt far more sober, but was still confused. 

“Indeed. I had always hoped bonding with an omega would, shall we say, polish some of his rough edges. Then he met you, and your rough edges seemed to fit with his, like a morbid jigsaw puzzle, if I must lapse into metaphor. From the start, knowing the two of you, I saw the potential for what you could be. I even regretted that I did not think to engineer your meeting. No longer than you lived with Sherlock, I had hoped you would see why I acted as if I was against your bonding.” 

“Well, anything you were for he’d be against, but separating us weakened the bond. Sending him away to make money was an uncontrollable factor, as Sherlock was generally uncontrollable. I don’t think, if you were so happy for us to be together, that you’d risk him getting lost in a case and accidentally destroying the bond.” 

“I trusted Mrs. Hudson would not let that situation come to pass. If I did not have proof otherwise, I would have expected Mrs. Hudson to have held my position before me.” 

“She does like a good umbrella.” John heard himself say, and wondered if he was a little drunker than he thought. 

“There is more to it, but that is need to know.” 

“Shite, but I hated that phrase in the military. Doctors need to know everything in order to make a proper diagnosis.” 

“At this time, I feel you need to know why I sent Sherlock out to make money he did not require.” 

“That will of yours said he didn’t have anything.” 

“Most trust funds revert to the estate in case of death of the beneficiary. Any Holmes offspring would have had a trust fund set up for them immediately upon birth, which would keep their surviving parent financially stable. I counted on you not knowing that, so you would not see my plan. Your family was not wealthy, yet they chose not to sell you to an alpha immediately after presenting. They valued you as a person.” 

“Valued. Twice you’ve said that, and not a price tag in sight.” 

“Does Sherlock understand price tags?” 

“Of course!” John protested immediately, but relented almost as quickly. “He can read a price tag and pay for an item, but I’d say he doesn’t understand the value of money. He’d buy one of each brand rather than dicker about the price.” 

“Exactly, John. Sherlock has always had everything he needs and most of what he wants. If he doesn’t, he finds a way to go out and get it. This includes omegas, as both Mummy and I have given him his choice of them to him since he presented. I needed him to see you as more than an omega, or he would have lost interest. Then, your life would have been exactly as those first few weeks were.” 

“You thought he’d have to almost lose me to value me.” 

“If he did lose you, then he wouldn’t have been worth you.” 

“So if you think I’m worth that much, why haven’t you chemically induced a heat?” 

“That, John, is not something you need to know at this time.” Mycroft was back into his bureaucrat mode, which made John realize he’d had a conversation with a real human being here. “Have some dessert before you drown your sorrows. I must finish up some work for tomorrow, if you will excuse me.” 

John wasn’t sure of where the dessert came from, or what it was, but he ate his way through it as he thought about what had been said. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


	3. A Step Outside

John had ten books in print, several of which were on the best seller’s list for romance novels, but his version of success can from watching the news. The first time he’d watched the news and realized what he was seeing, was about six months after the first book was published. A strange phenomenon had caught the attention of the medical establishment and the media had pounced on the half-formed theories. A nasty strain of the flu was making its way through the omega population, even those who had been given flu vaccines. Not life threatening to the omega, but it had delayed their next heat. This was an inconvenience for the alphas, which needed to take the time off work, but it was also demoralizing when the omega didn’t get pregnant during the heat after that. 

Soo Lin, the omega in John’s first book had used an illness to disguise the fact that she’d started making her own birth control. From a Chinese ancestry, Soo Lin had only to find the correct replacement ingredients from an English grocery store before she could make her own. John had looked into Chinese herbal medicine, but that information was limited and hard to come by. So he’d made up the Chinese stuff, but used real English ingredients in the recipe for Soo Lin’s birth control. John figured that if he ever got caught, poor research and poetic license would be the least of his worries. 

She had only wanted a longer time between each child, as the first baby had been so exhausting for her. Sebastian, her bastard of an alpha, had thought that would be an affront to his manhood. In the book, spacing out the babies had allowed Sebastian to learn to love his kids as individuals, and appreciate Soo Lin all the more. John only hoped it turned out that well in real life. 

For those who truly feared for their safety, there was the heroine from _The Speckled Wedding Band_. Helen Stonor’s stepfather had killed her mother in an effort to bond with her. Terrified of being killed, she had talked with their housekeeper, who gave her a secret Celtic recipe. This recipe had been the secret to Mrs. Hudson’s long years of being married to an alpha without ever having gotten pregnant; a small dose of powder dissolved in his morning coffee. Alpha or beta, it would reduce the sperm count but allow them the function sexually. If they ever decided to see a specialist, which was rare around these kinds of egos, skipping that morning’s dose would allow the sperm to recover before any tests were performed. 

John’s medical journals noted the increased number of omegas and female betas dragged to fertility clinics, and how their alphas seemed to be more willing to be tested as well. At this point, it was little more than an interesting trend, but it made John and Molly smile. Their effort at collaboration hadn’t gone so well, even though she had provided a valuable source on how it felt to have sex as a female. She was too smart for her own good, trying to put scientific terms into sex scenes. John had yelled ‘mucosal plugs are not sexy’ so loudly, Mrs. Hudson had come storming up the stairs to intervene. 

After apologies all around, John had an idea. He put Molly in charge of the Omega Institute, not even thinking about the name until he said it. It took seeing the initials on paper to realize he’d named it something English people said to get attention, which they were trying to avoid. Still, OI took the profits from the books and plunged them into research. For now, that research would be used to determine if a conventional wisdom held or if it was so much bullocks. John was going with the bullocks side, knowing an omega would be healthier and have healthier children if allowed to fully recover from pregnancy before getting knocked up again. Scientific proof, even if it didn’t reach the masses right away, would be a big step towards omega’s leading better lives. 

Molly and Mrs. Hudson were publishing his latest effort now, getting the cover done up and final edits, so John was trying to think up the next one. That one was about a woman accused of being a witch in the 1700’s. They’d captured her and kept her away from her cauldron for almost a month while they decided what to do with her, long enough for her to go into heat. Suddenly, she wasn’t a witch but a victim of a witch. A brave alpha had dared to step up and claim her, taking her into his home after sharing her heat. While the authorities tried to get her to name the witch who cursed her, she found out she could make more in her cauldron than heat suppressants. She soon had the entire town dancing to her tune, creating one of the few spots on Earth were everyone was equal. 

John had covered the present and the wished for past, so what about the future? Would the future be the same as the present, or would his tiny efforts at giving people the information they needed make any difference? And, in such a future, how would he and Sherlock wind up together? It might be cheating, but this was how John found his stories. He’d imagine Sherlock as the alpha and him as the omega, to find out what circumstances would bring them together. After the story was formed in his mind, he replaced Sherlock and him with fictional characters, who acted like normal people. Still, dreaming of Sherlock was a great way to spend his time, so John shut off the news, leaned back in his chair, and dreamed of a future for them. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Sherlock sat in the shade of the umbrella, sipping his coffee at the Paris sidewalk café. Sitting here, he’d formed his plan and now knew his next move; the only thing was making it. He was already tired, worn out in a way he didn’t understand; he just knew he needed John in his arms to sleep properly anymore. He was going to have to go deep undercover, sliding into Riga, Latvia, as a criminal on the run from Paris. 

Dreamy looks and secret smiles about John might be enough to get these people to ask questions. They were already suspicious, but a strange number of their kind had been taken out of the game recently. It didn’t sound like they suspected anyone in particular, still thinking the cops were just having a run of good luck, but they’d been looking for anything strange. Including, Sherlock realized as an omega with six kids walked by, an alpha with a bodice ripper. 

He’d brought the book with him for months now, rereading it even though it was stored in his memory. A tiny blond omega male, who everyone described as wriggly, had been sold to a bookie to pay his father’s debts. The beta bookie was more interested in money than sex, at least when the omega wasn’t in heat, so he’d sold Jonathan at auction. A drug kingpin, Jack Mason, had bought him, set him up in a London penthouse, and prepared to bond with him. 

Scared but smart, the omega had run. He’d almost escaped when a beat cop stumbled on him, and he’d hidden in the first place he could find. Unfortunately, Jonathan’s luck was crap and he’d hidden in a crack house run by the drug lord he was trying to escape. Stressed, his heat had kicked in. The drug lord hurried to claim his sextoy, unaware he was being followed by his archenemy. A dark haired detective, Sean Gregson, hated Mason and knew he was into more than drugs. Sneaking in to see what Mason was up to, Sean hadn’t expected an omega in heat. His alpha instincts had kicked in, and after the fight Sean had bonded with Jonathan. 

There was a long period of adjustment, as Sean got used to having someone else in his life and Jonathan got used to being treated as a person. Never having expected to have an omega in his life, Sean hadn’t learned how to treat one, so the best he could do was treat him like a human being. When he caught Jonathan mixing beta birth control pills into a mixture of household ingredients (in what Sherlock considered to be a surprisingly realistic recipe that he’d like to experiment with), Sean had listened when Jonathan explained about not being ready for kids yet. Realizing his own hidden fears of his fathering abilities, Sean had been grateful that they weren’t expecting just yet. 

He’d also started taking Jonathan to crime scenes that involved omegas, beta mothers, or children. This had eased tensions in these situations so much that Scotland Yard had even made up a role for Jonathan, giving him some authority and a small salary. When Jonathan’s birth control failed, a few years down the road, they were both ready for this change to their lives and deeply in love. 

Sherlock knew the story, as well as he knew he couldn’t take the book on this mission. It was simply all the stuff he’d hoped was in store for him and John, after Moriarty’s timely death. There had been pointless domestic stuff in their time, after Moran and before Sherlock’s fall, like the first time John had come home empty handed after arguing with a chip and pin machine. Or the time some criminals had captured John, thinking he was Sherlock. Later, after talking to Mycroft, they’d been able to watch the CCTV together, laughing at it. 

With a thug holding on to each of his upper arms, a disbelieving John had pulled his shirt up, showing the bulge in his stomach that wasn’t from overeating. They’d released his arms and backed off as if he was radioactive; terrified of coming between an alpha and his omega. The cameras didn’t have sound, so John provided voices in a funny soprano. 

“Who’s your alpha?” 

“Fuck, Mike, don’t matter. I ain’t touching no claimed omega.” 

“Shut up, Nails! We just want him to back off until we get that vault emptied, and holding his omega will do that.” 

On screen, John rolled his eyes; Sherlock hadn’t known they were after a vault but he would shortly. 

“Listen, honey, tell us who your alpha is and we’ll leave you alone.” 

It might have been that they assumed he was stupid enough to believe them, the diminutive way Mike said ‘honey’ or just because he was a soldier, but John attacked. A kick to his left had Nails grabbing his balls and collapsing slowly, taking him out of the picture quickly. Mike got a fist to his startled face, a knee to his stomach, and then an elbow to his head as he bent forward. He looked up at his tiny, pregnant attacker with disbelief as he lay on the sidewalk. 

John hadn’t translated what he’d said on screen to the man on the ground, but he hadn’t needed to. Sherlock could see his lips and read what was said, but not understand why he had to ask. 

“Sherlock is my alpha, and I’m trying to make myself worthy of him. Do you think I’ve succeeded?” 

Mike had answered by falling unconscious, but Sherlock had only held John to him. They’d made love that night while Sherlock tried to find the words. Later, when John was asleep, Sherlock had only found his own question to ask. “How will I ever be worthy of you, my John?” 

Deciding that helping the struggling pregnant omega with six kids and a beta nanny would make John proud, Sherlock pulled the book out of his pocket. It wasn’t John in his arms on the cover, but it was as close to a picture as he could get away with carrying. Ripping off the front cover, Sherlock made a mental note to write stuff that looked like a code on the back. That way, if anybody ever found it, they’d think the writing was important and waste time trying to figure it out. Standing, he tossed some Euros on the table and headed off in the direction the woman went. 

She was ordering her kids to behave in French, but with an American accent, so Sherlock knew she’d be able to read the book. At a busy intersection, he managed to get close enough to slip the book into her overstuffed diaper bag. It wasn’t much, but maybe reading the book would be enough to lift her spirits, even for a little while. Maybe, if she was willing to experiment, she could steal her beta servant’s birth control and try the recipe in the book. It sucked for the beta, who had to get on a waiting list and prove that she was a servant to an omega and unbonded before she could get birth control, but she had a greatly reduced chance of getting pregnant anyway. 

This world was always going to suck for somebody anyway, Sherlock thought before he buried himself in his mind palace. Until he could dismantle this omega trafficking ring, he’d be Louis de Flesselles, failed magician but well known Paris thief and omega wrangler. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Mycroft’s office was designed to be Spartan and elegant, providing the impression that he didn’t do much work and was simply a figurehead. A puppet that had to be gone through to get to the important people, unless you were important enough to know who the really important person was. There was great strategic advantage in being underestimated, so Mycroft crafted this image. He also worked some top secret advances in technology into the surfaces of his office, such as the touch screen that made up his desk, the CPU being the drawer where most people kept keyboards. 

There was also a scanner built into his doorframe, searching for metal and electronic listening devices. An image would appear on his desk of the likely source of the metal found, such as if it was enough for a mobile or a gun. Just above the average height of most people, so that Mycroft could look up to greet them and see it, was a red light that would flash twice if the person coming in was bugged. Mycroft had never expected that light to flash as Anthea entered and she stopped at the annoyance that crossed his face. Reaching up to tug at his ear, twice, told Anthea why he had reacted. Anger crossed her face as they both reached an understanding. 

Anthea had not set off the device when she left to meet with the CIA. She had met with no one else, coming directly back to report to Mycroft. Unless it was the secretary outside, then the CIA, who claimed to want to work with Mycroft on this, had bugged her. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and Anthea gave a small nod of understanding; they were going to play with the CIA. 

“Sorry to come in without knocking, sir.” Anthea offered, explaining their few seconds of silence and Mycroft’s annoyance, should the bug have visual. “I believed you wanted a report on what the CIA required and thought only of getting it to you as quickly as I could.” 

“I will forgive your enthusiasm this time; I know how passionate the Americans can be.” If the word passionate sounded like a curse from this stiff-upper-lip British gentleman, so much the better. 

“Thank you, sir. They are rather distressed, believing that someone is sneaking information to omegas and betas. Their analysts have found an increase in the number of omegas not getting pregnant during their heats, though for a variety of reasons. There are also a number of young people who should have presented by now that do not seem to be doing so, including the son of one of the analysts who was sure the boy was an omega.” 

“The poor father had plans for that dowry, I take it?” Mycroft asked, as if sympathetic to the father’s plight. This snippet of information did help Mycroft understand why the Americans had seen this trend before enough time had passed to make it obvious. 

“It would seem so, a Lamborghini, I am informed.” 

“Goodness! Who would spread such dangerous information to omegas and betas?” Mycroft wondered out loud, as the confused middleman he was supposed to be. 

“The CIA is not sure, but suspect anarchists, terrorists, and a couple of cults.” Anthea paused to clear her throat, ready to give him the important information. “They have asked to work with us because they have determined the effects took place in the UK before spreading outward.” 

“How interesting, especially when you consider the UK doesn’t have the kind of extremist America does.” Mycroft hoped that put the dander up of anybody listening. “Really, we must do all we can to stop this pernicious influence.” Mycroft said forcefully, hoping the CIA heard determination and outrage. 

Anthea pulled out her mobile and began texting. 

Mycroft knew he wasn’t that emotive, and wasn’t sure if any of his feeble acting skill was coming through the electronic bug, but he had to try. He could be the politician he needed to be for his job, but he’d had years to practice that subsequent manner. When it came to emotions, he envied Sherlock’s skill in making people believe in him. He knew they both felt things deeply and tried not to show it, but somehow Sherlock had learned to fake the appropriate emotions. They’d both tried different methods of reducing what they felt, Sherlock with his drugs and Mycroft with his work. It had taken John to open Sherlock back up and Mycroft was afraid Gregory would do the same to him. 

“I have told the liaison with the CIA that we will assist, and requested a copy of all their information.” Anthea said, though they the both know the CIA would only send what they wanted to. 

“Very good. I will tell everyone to keep an eye out, but it would be easier if we had some idea what to look for.” 

“Yes, sir.” Anthea turned

to go, eyeing the little sensor that flashed as she moved out of the office. Mycroft could see the way her back stiffened at the sight, and knew what was about to happen. She’d spend an hour or two talking to the CIA, letting them hear what she was talking with them about. Then there would be a gasp of astonishment and a bit of spilled liquid, likely tea, and the bug would go out. The CIA would be satisfied that it was an accident and that Mycroft was going to completely cooperate with them. Anthea would be more careful in the future, more suspicious of handshakes from friendly Americans. Mycroft would be able to see what the CIA had, see what they didn’t want him to see, and lead the CIA around. 

Just one thing before he got around to that, though. He wrote a text to Anthea and set it to send in three hours. He expected her to have gotten rid of the bug by then, just as he expected her to understand the message. There were sixteen people in his direct service with names starting with J, all of whom had a computer. Anthea would see the text and go warn the correct J, but carefully, even if she wasn’t sure of why. 

_Check J’s computer warranty._

Mycroft didn’t want John’s side project getting him into trouble, especially not trouble that would force a bonding. Such a thing would have Sherlock ready to murder his brother, even if he didn’t need to in order to reclaim John. From the quality of John’s side project, Mycroft expected good things of John’s Sherlock stories. He only dared ask after them occasionally, but he was terribly curious about John’s version of things. 

In his own way, Mycroft was looking forward to telling John about the original Miss Kitty, of internet fame. She had appeared when a young Sherlock was trying to get a reputation as a case solver. Mycroft’s boss saw the name in the newspaper and saw a chance to get back at his overambitious assistant. He’d called Sherlock in to find Miss Kitty, let him look over what information they had, and waited. 

“No.” Sherlock had said, tossing back the file folder. He stood to leave, and Peterson had jumped to his feet, gesturing for Mycroft to stop Sherlock. 

Mycroft had turned his stern look on Sherlock, stepping in front of the door. Sighing so hard his head moved back toward his shoulder blades, Sherlock stopped to confront Peterson. 

“I believe in truth and knowledge. This Miss Kitty is spreading the truth, and it sounds like you know it. You and your alpha superiority complex can’t take that, so allow me to shed some tears, but I’m not going to track her down for you.” Dismissing the sputtering politician, Sherlock had turned to Mycroft. “Dear brother, if hunting down intelligence to imprison it is the kind of thing you get up to, you can count me out.” 

Mycroft had stood aside, fighting down his smile. He’d been so proud of Sherlock in that moment, it hadn’t even occurred to him that Sherlock would resent his work in perpetuity because of Peterson’s stupidity. Peterson had accidently stumbled on Miss Kitty’s location, City University of London, but his goons had lost her there. She hadn’t posted since, but there were still computers in place to look for any mention of that name on the internet. 

Sherlock didn’t have any reason to suspect that the Miss Kitty of that assignment hadn’t resurface in book form, so it wouldn’t occur to him that it was John’s writing. The similarity of the names wouldn’t matter, because poetic license meant little to the man dedicated to the truth, but more so than changing the names to protect the innocent. Nobody was innocent in Sherlock’s eyes, not after a childhood of bullying. 

The way the omega looked at the alpha on the cover wouldn’t matter to Sherlock, as he’d never seen John look at him like that. John only dared look like that when Sherlock wasn’t looking, afraid his desperate love and need would scare off the independent alpha. Leaving that book for Sherlock to find had either been kind or cruel, and Mycroft was bothered that he couldn’t decide which. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

With the basic outline of his futuristic novel written on the front page of a new notebook, John knew he should get to writing. He’d told Molly what he wanted, and the OI was already looking into if scents could be added to the standard scent blocker used on hospital staff. In his futuristic novel, everybody hid their scent as a matter of course, so that everyone was treated as an equal. As such, he wanted to include the recipes for that in this book, so present day omegas could hide as betas and get educations or jobs if they wanted. 

The beta scent he’d used during med school and the army had been a thinned down version of his alpha sister’s scent. He doubted Harry be very happy if everybody started smelling like her, plus that would quickly become the scent of people in hiding and defeat the purpose. He’d also been able to make his own, adjusting it if it was too strong or caused a rash. For this to work, it had to be something that worked on most omegas without causing side effects, which is where Molly came in, finding the answers for him. 

Mycroft was being good about not demanding to see the results of John’s efforts, though he did hint that he’d like to. Asking for a chemical research laboratory might make Mycroft nosey, which John wanted to avoid. John had finished the cases he’d worked with Sherlock, and was researching Sherlock’s case notes for others to write about, just in case Mycroft got stubborn. As much as John loved to take home Sherlock’s case notes to snuggle in bed and read, Mycroft might suddenly ask why John was leaving the laptop with Mrs. Hudson every night. 

John also left her the laptop during the day, if he had a full notebook of things for her to type up. Since the mostly empty notebook was with him, John also had the laptop today. Hidden in her fancy teapot for formal occasions that never occurred, unknown to Mrs. Hudson, was a jumpdrive that contained John’s stories about Sherlock. Molly also had a copy, though he’d password protected that jumpdrive and told her so. 

He wasn’t ready for others to read his words, especially since he’d worked so hard to take out all the emotional claptrap that would offend Sherlock. He’d tried to describe Sherlock; instead of saying that he was beautiful, John talked about his humanity in not knowing the solar system, and not about the goofy look on his face when he touched the baby bump. Even with all that editing, John was still afraid every word screamed how much he loved and missed his madman. 

The doorbell rang, and John automatically stuffed the notebook and pen into the desk drawer. Waking up his laptop while Mrs. Hudson answered the door, John hoped it looked like he was busy doing what he was supposed to be doing. It usually wasn’t anything important, but John’s paranoia told him it was a good idea. Today it paid off, as Mrs. Hudson called up. 

“John, dear, it’s that lovely assistant.” 

“Please, send her up.” John called back, shoving his irritation down. It was never good when Mycroft’s favorite minion showed up somewhere. Making sure the computer screen was angled away from the doorway and any reflective surfaces, John did his best to block it from her nosey view. For someone who never took her nose away from her mobile, she had excellent long distance vision. “Anthea, it’s a bit early to pick me up.” 

John had been looking as she came to the doorway, the door always left open, and spoke before he noticed what was strange. Anthea wasn’t holding her blackberry in a death grip, running the world through text. 

“I’m not here for that, John. We were running a standard security check and found that several of our computers had a virus on them. Mr. Holmes asked that I check yours, as it was programed in our division.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, just in case John’s instincts needed any more clues that something was going on. 

“Let me just get out of this and you can have at it.” He clicked out of the word program that was always up, even when he didn’t use it. “This is why I wanted a computer that wasn’t online all the time; it doesn’t get as many viruses.” 

“Mr. Holmes is rethinking company policy in regards to internet usage.” Anthea said as she took the seat John had vacated. “This will not take long.” 

She moused out of the screens John used, turning the computer into a black screen with white writing. From there she typed and tabbed so quickly John wondered if she was part machine. With such skill, intelligence and determination, she could have been a Holmes, John thought before going to put on the kettle. 

“Anthea, what’s this virus do?” He called, setting out two mugs. 

“It is a backdoor for criminals to crawl in through. Nothing that should worry you, as you don’t have any private information on this computer, but it is causing a stir at the office.” 

If it was causing problems at the office, why was an expert sent to focus on his unimportant laptop, John had to wonder, though not out loud. 

“It is a dangerous world, John, as an omega such as you should know.” 

John froze in the kitchen doorway. Anthea had never commented on his gender before, not even when he was pregnant. Clearly, she was trying to tell him something and was suspicious of being overheard. 

“Someone is even spreading information to omegas, about birth control and heat suppressants, information that has not been scientifically validated. The CIA suspects the information is being spread through the internet, disguised emails sent to innocent omegas. Fortunately, this virus update I just loaded will prevent any of that from reaching you, at least until the CIA determines more than the source of the information is in London.” 

“Oh, right.” John sputtered, knowing he was expected to say something. Then again, what would most people say when they found out the CIA was looking for them? “Thank you, for the virus update. Everybody wants to be safe in a dangerous world.” 

“You are very welcome.” Anthea replied as the kettle whistled. “Your computer looks clear, but please stay away from any strange email.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind. Cuppa?” 

“No, thank you, but I have to get back to the office.” A firm nod and Anthea marched out, blackberry in her hand once again. 

Making his own cup of tea and replacing the second mug in the cupboard, John ignored the computer for a while. He’d had plan B in mind for a while, and he knew it was time to implement it. He didn’t really want to, as he was doing a good thing here, but an uncertain future was better than the future that awaited him if the CIA got any closer. 

He packed his laptop bag so it looked as if there was a laptop in it, putting empty notebooks on either side of changes in underwear and socks. He then changed into the sturdy work boots he’d worn on cases with Sherlock, hoping whoever came to fetch him wouldn’t notice. Making sure he had plenty of pens packed, John’s last item was the notebook with the outline of his futuristic story. 

Back at the computer at last, he flipped on the internet. Not having to worry about money anymore had its perks, so he selected a computer and bought it, not having to dicker about the price. Ordering gift wrapping, he set up two day delivery to Mrs. Hudson, knowing she’d understand when she saw it. Closing down the laptop, he hid it under their bed. It didn’t matter to him if they found it, just not today. Another cup of tea, and he sat on the couch to watch news until his ride arrived. 

Ringo showed up to collect him, and John almost grinned. This bodyguard was insulted that he was protecting an omega, but determined to prove himself anyway. This made his standoffish and he hadn’t given John a name. Since he looked a little like Ringo Star in a government approved haircut, John called him Ringo. It made Ringo’s eyes tighten with annoyance, which was all it took for John to continue doing it. John didn’t wish ill on any of his bodyguards, but Ringo was the one he was the most willing to toss to the wolves. Or, in this case, a pissed Mycroft. 

Ringo locked the doors as he sat in the driver’s seat, but John was ready for him, with a finger under the lock. The other doors locked, satisfying Ringo, but John’s door was still unlocked. Waiting for a red light and some heavy traffic didn’t take long, as this was London. As Ringo pulled away from the traffic signal, John simply opened his door and stepped out, laptop bag still over his shoulder. 

By the time Ringo reacted, parking the car in the middle of the intersection and getting out, John was down an alley and up on a rooftop. Ringo looked down the correct alley, hesitated and ran down it anyway, never looking up. Watching him go, John used what he’d learned hanging out with Sherlock to make his way across the roofs to an alley without CCTV cameras. 

He’d put a hoodie on under his coat, so now he reversed that and pulled the hood up. A fake pair of glasses from Sherlock’s disguise collection slipped onto his nose, and John emerged into the street again. Doing his best to avoid Mycroft’s cameras, John headed for the places Sherlock’s homeless network hung out. Unlike them, John had money hidden on him and places he could go if things got bad. For now, living with them looked too much like freedom for him to worry about it. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


	4. Parallel Lines

Anthea flipped between texts, automatically assigning priority to them as she watched a trusted associate, Gwen, sneak into the CIA’s offices. As this ordinary looking maid with the heavy Welsh accent plugged the device into their computers and activated it, Anthea scanned what was being transmitted. She marked some as the files loaded, making sure they took all the information the CIA had. From her quick scan of the documents, instead of looking at the internet as they’d said, the CIA was actually looking for an alternative means of spreading information. 

Annoyed by this pointless duplicity, Anthea almost didn’t read the text that came from Kurt Paulette. He was a power-hungry fool who had been foisted off on Mycroft when Mycroft had needed a favor. As such, his texts were usually banal attempts at getting people to side with him against Mycroft. Her clever boss knew all about it, naturally, and was just waiting for the perfect opportunity to dump the man out of his service. It was a desire to help the boss she so admired that made Anthea read Kurt’s text, and the transmission of files had stopped anyway. 

_Lost John ran away send help_

Anthea froze at the words, not even noticing the lack of coordinates or punctuation. It took Gwen’s insistent voice in her ear to get Anthea moving again. 

“Gwen, permission granted to get out. Signal when completed.” 

“Right.” Came the acknowledgment, and the hacked security feed showed Gwen casually taking the maid’s cart back to housekeeping. Four CIA agents passed her, but the only one to show any interest only had eyes for her arse. 

Anthea watched, desperate to do more than forward Kurt’s text to the office. Clara knew her stuff, even if domestic bliss had her asking to be reassigned to office duties, and she would be sending out the troops. Anthea needed to be the one to tell Mycroft, though. 

She had no proof, but knew Mycroft’s newest secret resource was Sherlock. The effectiveness of this secret agent would disappear, as would his motivation for working, if he learned of John’s disappearance. Mycroft would carry the weight of this, as he did with so many other things. Anthea wanted to protect Mycroft, in a way she couldn’t easily explain. She knew she wasn’t sexually attracted to him, but he was more important to her than any boss could be. She respected him, which was rare enough, but respected him so much that she showed it in every word and gesture. 

“Cleared the building, and heading for my neck of the woods.” Gwen said. 

Anthea twitched an eyebrow at that turn of phrase, but did not comment on it. This would let Gwen know something was up, and hopefully she wouldn’t expect more information or chit-chat. “Excellent work. Operation successful.” 

Bolting from her desk, Anthea texted Clara a question mark as she walked as fast as she could to Mycroft’s office. Clara quickly returned with a location and time of disappearance, and that it was a suspected runaway, not kidnapping. It wasn’t much, but it was something to tell her boss. Knowing he was in a meeting, Anthea softly opened the door. At Mycroft’s eyebrow, she moved to his side to pretend to whisper in his ear. Instead she showed him Clara’s text and held a calming hand to the spot between his shoulder blades. 

His back did stiffen, and then he was standing. “Forgive me Inspector General, but something has come up.” 

His tone left no room for argument, and the military man recognized it as such. He gathered up his things and left in a hurry. Anthea escorted him out while Mycroft did his own texting. Satisfied that he had all the information, he began to pull up hidden screens from the interface in his desk. CCTV feeds filled his vision, and Anthea recognized that he wouldn’t look at her for a while. She didn’t mind, knowing how useful such concentration was in getting things done, and he still saw her more than any other person she’d ever known. She left quietly, but would be back in with tea shortly. Maybe then, she’d find some other way to help him carry this. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Sunday was officially Greg’s favorite day of the week anymore, even if he was still dressing in a suit. He didn’t look half bad in a fresh suit, neat tie, and a clean shirt, unlike the lived-in look his suits had during the week. And it was not John he was dressing to impress; even living with Mycroft, John had still managed to wear his jeans and jumpers so it was unlikely he cared what Greg wore to lunch. Greg also doubted he could be comfortable in the things Mycroft wore, so his standard suits were the best he was going to get. 

Mycroft was used to beautiful things and people, a single look at his neighborhood showed that, so the Sunday lunches and afternoon strolls were all this worn-out copper was going to get. John had so kindly begged off of the strolls around the garden for months now, but Mycroft hadn’t made a move. 

As if hooking his heart on an alpha hadn’t been dumb enough, Greg had also taken a liking to omega Molly Hooper. A great deal more alphas in the world than omegas, so he knew better than to get serious about her, but he wanted to spend time with Molly. He also wanted to find out what was wrong with the alphas of the world that they hadn’t seen her for the marvel she was. 

“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft’s nameless butler answered the door, but seemed to hesitate a second before stepping out of the way. 

Greg tried not to let his instincts kick up, but Mycroft’s servants were few and well trained. They were of the old school variety, seen and not heard, doing for you before you even knew what it was you wanted. Also, vetted by Mycroft personally, so not likely to sell a tell-all memoir like the Pope’s butler. If they hesitated, something had to be wrong, and sure enough, the butler led the way to Mycroft’s study and not the dining room. 

The butler knocked, heard a signal Greg didn’t, and opened the door to announce Greg. 

Mycroft stood up from his desk, flattening down his clothes as he did so. 

Greg was startled by a stressed looking Mycroft, hair ruffled and more ginger than ever without the slick jell on it, but not so startled he didn’t see the desk. It was chaotic, with papers and at least six electronic tablets spread around it. The butler left, and Mycroft put on his politician face. This didn’t do much to hide the growth of ginger beard or the bags under those all-seeing eyes.

“Gregory, I am terribly sorry, but I forgot to cancel lunch today.” 

Greg nodded to the desk. “World War III?” 

“Nothing that dramatic, I assure you. I have my best people working on this and it will be resolved expeditiously.” 

“Wow.” Greg said quietly and went to seat himself in the visitor’s chair. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.” 

“You see far too much of me, Gregory.” Mycroft replied as he sank back into his chair. “We cannot find John.” 

Greg fought down his impulse to jump up and demand answers, knowing the detective inspector routine wouldn’t work on Mycroft. 

“He walked out of a moving car between Baker Street and here, taking a laptop bag with him. The laptop was found at the flat so we do not know what supplies were in the bag. He went through alleys until he found one without CCTV cameras and changed his appearance before disappearing completely.” 

“When was this?” 

“Wednesday past.” 

“And you didn’t ask for Scotland Yard’s assistance because?” 

“I know why he left, and a massive search would defeat the purpose of his leaving.” 

“Yet your people are looking for him.” 

“By ‘my people’ I meant me. I am looking for him through CCTV of the city.” 

“On top of your regular duties and while trying to keep up appearances?” 

“Naturally.” 

“Why did John leave?” 

“I believe that is his secret to tell you.” 

“Why do you want him back so much?” 

“He is my brother-in-law.” 

“Not good enough. If it was just that, you’d have told the Yard to be on the lookout and left it at that.” 

“John is in danger, a threat I did not feel the need to tell him about. He left without all the pertinent information.” 

“Close, but not all of it. What’s the threat?” 

“Any child of John’s is worth a million pounds to a certain party; the alpha of the coupling being unimportant.” 

Greg felt like he’d been slapped. “For a million pounds, they’d be more than willing to impregnate him themselves and turn in the kids. Shite, but John doesn’t do anything by halves, does he?” 

“Indeed not.” 

“Is that why you didn’t,” Greg paused, unsure if he should ask. Still, he did want to know and it might be relevant. “Why you didn’t induce a heat and claim him?” 

“Everyone must wonder at that, as it is within my rights and I am concerned with the Holmes’ line.” Mycroft looked sad for a brief second before pushing it away. “He may yet begin to cycle naturally, in which case it would be a kindness to make sure he has an alpha at hand.” 

“Still sounds like you don’t plan on being that alpha.” 

“I do not. I have plans at the ready, should such an occurrence take place. The Holmes line will be continued through other means or not at all.” 

“You wouldn’t leave something that important up to chance.” 

“Wouldn’t I?” Mycroft made eye contact with Greg, as if to pass on a deep secret without words. 

Greg knew what he wanted that look to mean, but figured that was just wishful thinking. Mycroft had to know his attention was welcome and he didn’t need to wait for fate to intervene. 

“John is an intriguing individual, one who was able to hide much of himself from me, but I will not take something that meant so much to my brother.” Mycroft said, exhaustion and worry tingeing his voice. “Before John, Sherlock only cared for the drugs, the cases, and the violin. Even with John’s injuries, they were able to bond and fall in love as the stories say we should. Their bond is so strong, yet they have no idea because they are too wrapped up in each other to look into it. Don’t you understand, Gregory? I wanted Sherlock to continue the Holmes line because he was the better specimen. His beauty, his luck, and his pure interest in the world were always things I admired. He became cynical in an uncaring world, but a Holmes raised by John would be able to keep that sense of wonder and live happily. Our family has money and brains, but we need to enjoy life more, be willing to take risks, and not try to control everything.” 

Mycroft’s eyes were unfocused, perhaps gazing into his memory for the regrets of a lifetime. Greg didn’t know, but he did know how out of sorts Mycroft had to be to say so much. Mycroft had done his best to take care of Sherlock and John, so now it was time someone took care of him. Electing himself, Greg stood and walked over to Mycroft’s side of the desk. 

Mycroft looked up with half a smile. “If I didn’t have to control everything, I could let myself be in love with a beta.” 

“Get up, show me your bedroom.” Greg said, too focused on his mission to let Mycroft’s words stop him. Though he would repeat them in his head when he had the time. 

“Gregory, I don’t feel as though I could do our first encounter justice in this condition.” 

“What kind of beta do you think I am? You haven’t even taken me out on a date yet. No, you’re going to bed, and you’re going to sleep.” 

“I do not have time; I must find John.” 

“A pregnant John took care of Sherlock on cases; I’m sure he’ll be fine while you sleep.” Greg took Mycroft’s hands and pulled him to his feet. Mycroft only wavered a little bit before Greg was leading him toward the stairs. “Surgeons must get good training at St. Bart’s that they can take down thugs twice their size.” It was a joke, a laugh at how very dangerous John could be in defense of his alpha; Greg certainly didn’t expect an answer. 

“Clearly, he learned all that during basic training.” Mycroft said, slightly annoyed. “I understand that he took private lessons with other soldiers in Afghanistan, telling them it was because even field surgeons could get attacked, yet were not trained as much. This is my room.” 

Several things came together in Greg’s mind at the knowledge that John was also a soldier. It explained his wide variety of skills, his ability to use an adrenaline rush, and general ability to take whatever came his way. The main thing was how John would start to say something, such as ‘When I was’ and then pause. He’d be remembering how he wasn’t supposed to have those stories, and wasn’t supposed to tell them. He’d give a ‘never mind’ and move the conversation on, but Greg had wondered about what stories John had to tell. 

More thoughts for another time, as Greg got a good first look at Mycroft’s bedroom. Posh, elegant, and with a huge bed that probably never got used. But then, Mycroft was taking off his clothes, and Greg’s thoughts were all on that activity. 

Mycroft was down to his undershirt, trousers, and socks when he turned to look at Gregory. He frowned. “Why aren’t you getting undressed?” 

“You’re just sleeping right now, remember?” 

“Yes, but as soon as you leave I’ll get up and go back to work.” 

It was a smug little threat, and Greg smiled as he understood. “Is that your way of asking me to stay with you? Well, if you insist, I could use an afternoon nap.” 

Mycroft sat down to pull off his socks, so Greg stripped. He was used to locker rooms at school, the academy, and the station, so he wasn’t bothered. He would have liked to be in better shape, without his middle age paunch and silver chest hair, but the room was only lit by sunlight through the windows and Mycroft would be asleep soon. Greg was naked by the time he realized Mycroft wasn’t going to remove his undershirt or pants, but instead of saying something he ushered the man to bed. Headless of his nudity, Greg cuddled up with Mycroft. He seemed happy with his head in the crook of Greg’s neck, laying on his side, but started to speak anyway. 

“Gregory, this is a onetime occurrence.” 

“Hush up and sleep. I know a one-off when I hold a brilliant man in my arms.” Greg knew a lullaby wouldn’t be appreciated, so he settled for a tune from a movie and hummed softly until the words kicked in. “ _Far over the misty mountains cold_.” 

Mycroft struggled to stay awake, probably curious about the song, but he was asleep before Greg had to try and remember the words to _Blunt the Knives_. Greg was left with a dream come true sleeping in his arms, and plenty of reality to think about. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so well, and fought to stay asleep. But knowing he was asleep/awake was enough to propel him toward full wakefulness and certain realities began making themselves known. He was a tangle of limbs with Gregory, and it was more comfortable than he’d thought. It had also left him with a more tangible proof of his desire, one the current positioning of his hips hid. He could get lost in this man, but he had to find John and warn him of the danger he was in. If he could not find John, then he would be forced to call in Sherlock; an eventuality that would not go well. This family distraction was also letting the situation with North Korea slide, and that could have disastrous consequences to more than his family. 

Gregory chose to shift, bringing himself closer to Mycroft and putting his hip against Mycroft’s slightly turbid penis. 

“Forgive me, Gregory, it is an unconscious response to sleeping with someone I desire.” 

“Every time? I mean, if we slept together every night, I could wake up to the possibility of sex?” 

“I was in my twenties the last time I slept with someone for a protracted period, but yes, that was the situation.” It had also been one of the reasons for their breakup, as that beta had refused to do anything about ‘morning wood’, as Carl termed it. 

“God, I love breakfast sex. I wish I could keep you.” 

Mycroft licked his lips, a delay tactic stolen directly from John, and tried not to say he was Gregory’s to keep. He didn’t expect Gregory to roll over and up, pinning him to the soft mattress. A slight wiggle confirmed that Mycroft had very little traction to fight Gregory off of him, so he raised an eyebrow and waited for Gregory to speak. 

“Sherlock is alive, isn’t he?” 

Mycroft hadn’t been expecting that question but he was good with words. “What brings you to that conclusion?” 

“Your words from earlier. “Their bond is so strong”, present tense. I know you were tired to be speaking so candidly, but your grammar nerd is too strong for a little thing like exhaustion to make you slip up on tenses.” 

“Yes, Sherlock is alive.” It was such a relief to say it made Mycroft giddy, which was why he continued to confess. “They weren’t sure if he was going to live, so it started out as a lie to make John focus on healing himself. Then he survived, but I’d found out about the threat to John’s children.” 

“So you sent Sherlock on a secret mission to protect his omega, without telling John.” Greg sighed. “Mycroft, that’s a logical idea, but it broke John’s heart. Did you consider that before you did it?” 

“I did not expect it to take this long, nor did I expect for John to react so badly. They liked each other, but had only been together for a short while.” 

“Some people need time to convince their heads what their hearts already know, My, you should know that.” A sigh and a small shake of the head, and Gregory continued. “Anything else I should kno… oh, Mycroft, what about the baby?” 

“Worth a million pounds to anyone who knows his true parentage, if not more.” 

“Alive, but well hidden. Needed John to believe he was dead to keep the bad guys from looking, keep John from tearing up the planet looking. Once again, logical, but heartbreaking.” 

“Which is an adequate description of me, logical but heartbreaking. People I work with call me The Iceman and for the most part it is true. There are very few things that get to me, emotionally, and when they do, I can bury it under a façade of not caring. Do you see why I cannot sustain a relationship?” 

“Yes; it’s because you’ve never been with someone who cares too much, someone who will help you navigate an emotional minefield, as John does for Sherlock.” Gregory dropped his head, and kissed Mycroft. 

Mycroft kissed back, not closing his eyes so he could implant this in his memory. What had waned grew again and further, begging for Gregory’s attention as it had wanted to do for a long while now. 

Gregory broke the kiss to look into his eyes. “This is a one-off, yeah?” 

Mycroft couldn’t reply, too afraid of asking for more. 

Gregory crawled backward until his mouth was over Mycroft’s arousal, pulling it out through the fly of his silk pants. Licking his lips in anticipation, Gregory was a sight to see. Mycroft worked hard to see it, to keep his eyes open and watch as Gregory began to lick more than his lips, teasing the frenulum of prepuce with skilled fingers. Mycroft was doing well, until Gregory slid the crown into his mouth and began sucking his way down; Mycroft’s brain short circuited as he drowned in the feeling of wet heat and suction. He fought to get his control back and succeeded, for just the moment it took to realize Gregory was masturbating as he fellated Mycroft. That image made Mycroft orgasm so hard he lost all control and the desire to be in control. 

The sound of running water pulled him back to awareness, and moments later Gregory came out of the en suite with a flannel in his hand. He saw Mycroft looking and grinned. 

“Shame that was a one-off; I could start every day of my life like that.” 

“Anthea.” Mycroft blurted, and Gregory looked around like she would pop out from behind a curtain. “Anthea is my daughter; she’s an alpha and could carry on the Holmes line if Sherlock and I fail to.” 

“Anthea, your assistant? You couldn’t have been twenty when she was born.” Gregory sat on the bed, stunned by the news. Mycroft took the flannel and used it for its intended purpose as well as a distraction. 

“When I presented at school, I was fourteen, Sherlock seven, and my parents did not ask. I returned from school for the holidays and found an omega in heat in my bedroom. The door had locked behind me, so I did what any alpha would do. They took the omega away afterwards, to America, and a permanent bond with another. She returned to England in time to have the baby, but I was not told of all this. I found out only when running a background check and DNA test on Anthea, when she came looking for a job. She does not know that I am her father and I do not know how to tell her.” 

“Did you confront your parents?” 

“I had warned Sherlock so they could not do the same thing to him, which was when he learned to pick locks. As such, they would not speak of the incident until I confronted them with the existence of the offspring. Apparently, it is a standard Holmes method of ensuring the line, as even unacknowledged bastards will allow the genetics to continue. They were not remorseful.” 

“No wonder you don’t want an omega.” 

“It is not the omega’s fault, as it was a considerable amount of money for her and an honor for her family. But I did not enjoy the complete loss of control to be found in an omega’s heat frenzy, especially one I did not know or trust. I resolved to avoid omegas after that, an easy decision as the people I have been attracted to since have been betas.” 

“Molly Hooper.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You should court Molly Hooper, the pathologist. She’s an omega, but smart and trustworthy. You would have beautiful, intelligent children to continue the Holmes line.” 

“The flaw in that plan, Detective Inspector, is that I find myself emotionally attached to you.” 

“Really? Then why is this all a one-off?” 

“Because Sherlock’s happiness takes precedence over mine; I must find John.” 

“We must find John. Once you get some pants on.” Gregory moved over to his own clothes, hiding his muscular form once again. “And maybe some supper, as we missed tea.” 

Mycroft was a quick thinker, but for now all he noticed was how right it felt to have Gregory say ‘we’ to mean just the two of them. From that feeling, he made a decision. 

“I will call the staff and request supper before taking a shower. Please, look over the evidence on my desk and I will be with you shortly.” Mycroft said, hoping Gregory would take it for the invitation it was. More than supper, Mycroft was inviting Gregory into his sanctuary and his work; as deep in his life as anyone got. Gregory was grinning like a fool as Mycroft looked his way before shutting the bathroom door, so maybe he did understand. Maybe, his happiness and Sherlock’s were not mutually exclusive. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Louis de Flesselles was not having an easy time of it in Riga. He was picking up the language quickly, but the criminals were more suspicious than he had expected. Louis could make a steady income by pickpocketing, but complained to anyone that would listen that he needed more money. It wasn’t as if Riga was as popular a tourist destination as Paris, he complained, so he was forced to prey on the people who lived here, most of whom couldn’t afford it, as rich American tourists could. Listener’s sympathy lasted only as long as whatever drink Louis had bought them, so few realized he was running the numbers on their cellular phones while they drank. 

He had a handy little device that could read the memory of a phone when plugged into it, and stored the numbers until he plugged the device into his phone. From there, a satellite sent the information to Mycroft, who let him know if any of the numbers might be relevant. From there, Sherlock learned who Louis needed to drink with, as he worked his way into the circle of criminals here. 

Riga was a rough place, still reeling with the fall of communism and dealing with the rampant corruption of a new democracy. As such, anybody could get away with anything, as long as everyone else got their cut. Seemed like a good place for somebody with access to ten million pounds to blend in. Sherlock would know for sure, once he got his Louis character accepted by the bad guys. He was spiraling in, getting closer all the time, but far slower than he wanted to go. Tonight, he was drinking at a bar close to an omega brothel that had been in the same place, running the same illegal operation for almost a hundred years. Mycroft would probably have something pithy to say about a brothel outlasting two forms of government, but Louis just sniffed the air longingly as he walked past. 

There was a commotion, and Louis turned to look. A bleeding and mangled alpha was being tossed out the gate of the brothel. The gate slammed shut, leaving the dying man out on the street. There wouldn’t be cops asking questions, as the brothel could get away with anything. Sherlock knelt by the man, hand going to his pulse, and consciously fought the impulse to do what John would want. No, it was Louis who frisked the man down, removing anything slightly valuable. A quick look showed gold fillings, and Louis grinned as he pulled out a special tool. It opened so he could pull out a pair of pliers and remove those gold fillings. Pocketing his loot, Louis headed back in the direction he’d been going, feeling no urge to call for an ambulance. 

He was at the bar for twenty minutes, looking for a target, when two large men entered. Behind them was a smaller man, but no less deadly. He sat next to Louis and ignored him. Louis bought the man a drink with a grin, knowing a job interview when he saw one. It had been an impulse to rob the dying man, but it had impressed someone. Louis could almost smell the omegas this man controlled, knowing he’d be working with them soon. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

In the couple of weeks he’d been out here, John’s beard had grown in. At first it had itched like it was infested, but now that it probably was infested he was used to it. It made him look like one of the homeless, and he’d used some of his money to buy a winter coat from a charity shop. His disguise was no longer a disguise, and people not from the streets ignored him as they ignored any other societal outcasts. The street people ignored him too, as if sensing he had somewhere he could go. Perhaps they thought he was only doing this for the fun of it, or for some news article, but they did not talk to him. 

For all his lies and hiding his gender, John had never had trouble making friends. His face had always been ordinary, one-of-the-crowd, or so he thought. He moved around, sleeping in a different place every night, but the attitude preceded him. The solitude gave him time to hide under his blanket and write, but it was disheartening. John was considering if it would be risky to sleep at the Vauxhall Arches as he walked across London. He’d been there once with Sherlock, so the regulars might recognize him, or Mycroft might be watching the area. Deciding it was a bad idea, John turned away, ducking through an alley. 

Before him, four skinheads were well into their nightly binge, from the slurred way they shouted at the homeless man they were kicking. John charged, cane held aloft like a club. They turned and started to laugh, stopping when John’s grubby cane connected with a shiny head. Three to one now, they turned on him, one tripping over the legs of their victim. As he knocked into a second thug, John was able to take out the third one. The one struggling to get up got a crack of the cane to his knee, and he collapsed on the ground to howl in pain. The final thug fled, yelling threats about getting the guys. 

With the much missed adrenaline in his system, John checked the homeless man for life-threatening injures. Since there weren’t any obvious ones, John picked him up and carried him out of that alley. Once they were safe enough, and John’s adrenaline began to leave him, he set the man down and did a thorough check of his injuries. He’d curled up when they began kicking him, so his back and butt would be bruised but none of his internal organs seemed injured. They talked a short while and went their separate ways. John finally settled for the night under an overpass. He woke the next morning with a line of patients who would only call him Doc. John grinned, and embraced his role. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


	5. Mary, Mary, Where you Going To?

As autumn and winter dueled outside his window, Mycroft was unexpectedly busy. He had a family Christmas to plan, introducing Mummy to Gregory and Anthea. The tricky part of that was making sure Anthea came, without actually inviting her or telling her that she was a member of the family. She had eight half-siblings, but she’d distance herself from their petty squabbles years ago, and was unlikely to return there during this break. 

Gregory wanted Mycroft to be truthful, to tell Anthea that she was his daughter. Gregory also wanted Mycroft to tell Mummy that Sherlock was alive, thinking a mother would still be grieving a dead child. Mycroft expected their actual meeting to disabuse Gregory of that notion, as the man had enough training to recognize a true psychopath when he shook her hand. If Mycroft said as much, Gregory would accuse him of being unkind. The truth would out soon enough and Mycroft could avoid a fight, so that was the path he’d chosen. 

The search for John had ground to a halt, or at least to only two employees scanning CCTV to match computer generated images of what John would look like with a beard. John was surprisingly tricky and good at avoiding surveillance. He was almost as bad as Sherlock, except that John had not tried to cross any international borders. Sherlock had disappeared from Paris and only sent in phone numbers to track down. The nightly uploads were the only proof the man was still alive, and somewhere in the Northern European continent. 

Since he couldn’t directly help either man, Mycroft had taken on new official duties. Sherlock had told John that he ran the British government and the CIA on a freelance basis, but would now have to add several countries in Northern Europe. Anthea controlled Ireland and was very fluent in Italian. For John, Mycroft had taken the United Kingdom’s budget in hand. He’d managed to find a few extra billion pounds for the NHS, Veteran’s services, and any organizations that cared for the homeless. He wondered if it would be enough, considering the story that would be on the news tonight. 

A virulent strain of pneumonia was spreading, even as most of the world went in to get their flu shots. This pandemic had already crossed continents and was established in London. Unlike the flu, which spread through people who spent a few minutes together, this pneumonia was not that easy to contain. Most healthy people would be able to shake it off and go about their lives, so Mycroft was not concerned for himself. 

Sherlock had always been too thin and prone to ignoring his transport. Without John to prod him into feeding himself, Sherlock was highly susceptible to this infection. Without someplace warm to sleep and access to antibiotics, John was also likely to get sick. John’s side project had been considerably slowed down by his new living conditions, but as that was the only way of tracking him, Mycroft was not eager for illness to slow him down even further. 

Deciding his Christmas gift to the two of them would be a million pounds donated to a London charity that helped the homeless, ticked that item off of Mycroft’s mental to-do list. Unfortunately, this left him with coming up with a new way of distracting the CIA from OI, the tiny not-for-profit with one anonymous donor, Kitty Riley. The Americans were hanging on to this thing for all it was worth, and what Mycroft really wanted was a way to end this without John’s name coming up. For an amused moment, Mycroft considered writing a memo to St. Nick about it, and then got back to work. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

“Shark?” 

“Yes, Ernests?” Louis de Flesselles answered the hated nickname by using the speaker’s real name. Of the two, Louis was the most irritated and the conversation had just started. 

“Janis says we’ve got a new one coming, young, blond, and male.” 

“New ones are always good for business.” Louis nodded, never taking his eyes off the computer screen. The Parisian pickpocket had managed to make himself general accountant and assistant to the underboss rather quickly, once he was in the organization. This gave him unfettered access to the computer systems and a general idea of what was planned long before it happened. He knew the boss had an eye on a new omega, just as he knew he shouldn’t say anything about knowing that. 

“He told me to tell you, specifically.” 

“Did he now?” Louis asked rhetorically, forgetting Ernests wasn’t of the crowd that understood rhetoric. 

“Yes, make sure Shark knows, he said. Why did he tell me to tell you?” 

“You hear the rumors, deduce it.” One of the first words Louis had learned in Latvian had been deduce, a word he knew in several languages. His Russian was better than his Latvian, as was his English, so he could have made his way without learning the word, but he had a strange compulsion and gave in to it. Most of Louis’s life now was about giving in to his compulsions. 

When he’d arrived, pickpocket and obsessive collector of mobile phone numbers, he’d been underweight and tightly controlled. He’d begun eating and drinking with his fellow criminals to better learn his way around. Slowly he’d filled out, putting on weight. His nickname wasn’t a reference to how cunning or deadly he was, though he was known to be both those things. Janis had noticed the change and mocked him; being the boss, Janis could do such things and live. 

“Careful, Louis.” He’d said, words slurred as he gestured his half empty beer bottle at Louis’ gut. “Remember the shark after the feeding frenzy is his most vulnerable.” 

There had been the right amount of sycophantic laughter and the shark part had stuck. Louis could remember someone, (male, short, blond, not young) telling him about how he got his nickname. Adorable face, snuggled together in plush white sheets, and yet Louis couldn’t remember more than his nickname. ‘Three Continents’ was unimportant, as he had no bearing on Louis’ current plans, which involved taking control of the brothel from Janis. 

“Shark, did you really not take the omega the boss offered?” Ernests had finally worked up the courage to ask, as well as the brain power to formulate the question. 

“We run an omega brothel; omegas are handed out like fruit baskets at other offices.” Never having worked in an office, Louis felt safe assuming this to be true because Ernests wouldn’t call him on it. “The one I was given was simply not to my taste.” 

Louis had been offered a heat as a sign on bonus, but he’d turned that down easily enough. When he’d saved Janis from choking on a fish bone, Louis had been given an omega of his very own. He’d been able to refuse without offending Janis by convincing him that it would set a bad example. Everyone who heard the story would start refusing a sample heat in hopes of getting an omega all their own. Janis had accepted that, and Louis had managed not to take the skinny drug addict nearing menopause. 

The omegas here were like the drugs; everywhere and a mistake to use. Janis only hired people who didn’t do hard drugs and knew messing with the omegas was a killing offense. Betas mainly worked with the ones in heat; the alphas were there to keep the clients from getting out of line. Like the drugs, the temptation to take an omega was there. Louis was only human and the smell of heat, leaking out from the climate controlled rooms, was enough to make him _want_.

Louis knew to avoid the drugs because of the faded track marks on his arms and memories of rehab. His instinctive avoidance of the omegas was another matter, one he couldn’t explain. His other unexplainable idiosyncrasies included watching the BBC News whenever he could. Last night’s report about pneumonia had worried him in ways he didn’t want to think about. 

“Snake?” A new voice asked. 

Both Louis and Ernests turned and stood, having no wish to disrespect the boss. 

“Yes, sir?” 

“I’ll admit I expected more a reaction when I sent him to tell you the news.” Janis pointed at Ernests and then pointed outside. 

Ernests left, shutting the door behind him. “To the blond male omega?” Louis asked, just to clarify. 

“Yes.” 

“Why? I mean, I made sure you could afford to purchase an new and expensive omega, so I wasn’t surprised that you got one.” 

“I thought you’d be excited by the description, considering what you keep in your pocket.” 

“What’s in my pocket? Is this some sort of riddle in the dark of the security room, uh, sir?” The tacked on sir was a reminder to Louis to keep his sarcasm in check. 

Janis held up a folded and frayed rectangle of paper, which Louis instantly recognized. “It must have fallen out of your pocket.” 

“Did it now?” Louis replied mildly. 

“You play with it all the time, absentmindedly, while thinking.” 

“Do I?” This was a genuine question, as Louis didn’t know he did that. 

“It would bankrupt you, if I could but get you to the poker table.” Janis smirked, and this did explain his recent efforts toward that goal. “Looks like somebody has a type.” 

“He’s cute, but it’s the inside that counts.” Louis wiggled his eyebrows to show he was joking. “If you unfold it, you’ll see the writing there. It’s a code of some sort, and I’ve been trying to figure it out.” 

“A treasure hunt, how exciting.” Janis didn’t sound excited, but he also didn’t sound suspicious. 

“It might be nothing, just scribblings I took off a mark, but I want to know.” 

“What is that saying about curiosity and the cat?” 

“Very true, sir.” 

“Don’t worry, after the novelty has worn off, you’ll get your turn with this cutie.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“And I’ll get my share of any treasure you find while on my payroll.” 

“Absolutely, sir.” 

A firm nod, and Janis left. Louis sank back into his chair and tried to decide if he could move up the time-table of his planned takeover. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

John waited in line, the tiny post office crowded in the middle of lunch rush. People around him were giving him as much room as possible, which wasn’t much, and John was trying not to smile about it. If they thought he smelled now, they should get a whiff in the summer months. London’s heat wasn’t anything like Afghanistan’s, but when the easiest way to keep your clothes from getting stolen was to wear them, you sweated. John hadn’t been out in the middle of summer, but he knew what to expect from the few warm days before fall took hold of London. His shoulder told him this would be a cold winter, so John was window shopping thrift stores for a parka. 

He also kept changing coats with other homeless people, who didn’t have the cash strapped to them that he did. Not as much as he’d had at the beginning of this adventure, but he figured it was a good investment. Changing clothes meant it would be harder for anyone to look to closely at all the faceless street people. Mycroft might not ask for second opinions, but if any of his people were helping with the search, they would. See the image, go find a second opinion, decided if it was John, and hopefully by the time they’d made it to the street looking for that particular coat, John would have moved on to something else. 

He also trimmed his beard into different styles every time he spent the night in a homeless shelter. Street people still recognized Doc, but that could be because they were used to looking past clothes and beards that were even more transient than their owners. The person in front of him waved for him to go first, so John smiled at her and made sure to limp on his cane as he went by. A few grubby coins to the postmaster, and his pirate and omega adventure was off to Mrs. Hudson, via Molly at Barts. Another smile at the one who had let him go first, though she’d done it just to get the smell out that much quicker, and John left. He was still enjoying how his scent kept people away, instead of his omega pheromones bringing them in. 

“Doc!” 

At the call, John unconsciously stood straighter, looking around. Raz was running toward him, so he looked behind Raz for the cops. He didn’t see any, and then Raz stopped to pant at his side, hand on his arm. 

“Sammy’s been looking for you all morning, she can’t get Sailor to wake up.” 

John turned and started running, assuming the couple were where they normally were. Raz didn’t call out or overrun him, so he took that as confirmation and kept going. John held his cane close to his torso as he ran, mindful that he’d need it when the adrenaline wore off. The limp had to be psychosomatic, as he hadn’t injured that leg and it cleared up in emergencies. He’d stood up from more than one patient and collapsed back because he’d left his cane behind. Fortunately, the homeless network had made sure Doc got it back. 

Crossing through honking traffic, John darted into an alley, and covered the last of the distance to the couples’ home. It was an abandoned warehouse, one with the condemned signs still intact, to keep the officials away. Sailor had broken in through a coal chute and put in a ladder, converting that closed in space to their winter home. Kneeling and looking in, John could see Sammy had Sailor’s head in her lap, so she could stroke his hair. John pushed back a wave of emotion and memory, knowing that such a thing turned a snarling panther of Sherlock into a kitten. Focusing on getting in helped keep his mind free of that. 

“Sammy, I’m here now, sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” Dropping his pack next to their bed of rags, John knelt. He’d had to upgrade to a knapsack, as his patients were a resourceful group. Anytime he had to send them to a clinic because he couldn’t treat them, they’d returned with, well, basically anything that wasn’t locked down. Tommy Tinker, over by the Vauxhall Arches, had even managed to get John a stethoscope. John didn’t ask; he just accepted the bandages, ointments, aspirins, and everything else into his knapsack. The stethoscope was on top for easy access, and quickly confirmed what John needed to know. 

“Sammy, he needs to go to the hospital.” She started to protest, but John spoke over her. “I can’t treat him, I don’t have an x-ray to find it or to fix it.” She sagged a little more, and John continued in his kindest doctor’s tone. “The pleural effusion needs to be drained before it kills him. He need an x-ray to find it, a surgeon to put in the tube, antibiotics, food, rest. I can’t provide that for him here. How old is he?” 

“Seventy-two.” Sammy whispered. “But he doesn’t want to go back to that life.” 

John didn’t know their story, or why they were on the streets, but he knew his job. “I’m so sorry, but he either goes into the hospital or he dies. If we get him on the street before we call the ambulance, they won’t find your place.” 

Sammy swallowed heavily and then nodded. Grabbing his cane, John stood, ignoring the flare of pain in his leg, and looked up. A few familiar faces were gathered outside, so John would have help getting Sailor out. A deep breathe before, regretfully, moving his patient, and John felt the tickle of a cough in his chest. No time for him to get sick, so he wasn’t going to. Transport and all that. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

All hands were on deck tonight, as the first heat of the virgin omega went up for auction. They’d waited until he was ripe, but not in heat, so his pheromones would kick up with the input of the randy alphas. Even the ring of beta guards around him were visibly affected, but nobody was so far gone they could beg off paying on account of hormones making them bid more than they could afford. 

Louis surreptitiously turned his back to the crowd, hoping anyone who noticed would think he was calming himself. In truth, he was checking his cock’s disguise. After he noticed how hard everyone else was, he’d snuck off to the loo. He’d stuffed loo paper in one of his socks and tied a knot in the leg end. The knot kept the sock in his y-fronts, and the sock made it seem like he was at least partly interested in the omega writhing before him. 

Janis had probably expected Louis to join the bidding for this one, but Louis was thinking of vomiting. He’d never been less attracted to a person than he was this blond boy. He was his type, except maybe Louis didn’t really have a type. He thought his dreams had been of blond male omegas, but he was beginning to suspect it was the same blond male he was always dreaming of. Louis remembered a fall, and massive head trauma would explain how vague his memories were, so he tried not to dwell on the missing information too much. Which meant Three Continents, the blond from his dreams, was important. 

Instead of watching the crowd, he was thinking, trying to remember more than a nickname. As such, it took him an unforgivably long time to notice the fight that broke out. As he joined in, pulling the rowdy alpha out, he hoped his distraction was put down to the omega’s scent. How would he ever explain that he couldn’t remember the person he might have been bonded to? 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

John’s transport was not as well trained as Sherlock’s. Ignoring his pneumonia to work on patients hadn’t worked any better than ignoring that bullet wound in his shoulder. Then, he’d been taken care of by his brothers-in-arms, until his body expelled that last of his homemade suppressants. He’d been knocked unconscious and flown back to a secure location, where he’d had way too much medical attention. Then a forced bonding that didn’t take, a dead alpha, and so many intense questions. 

If he showed up in a hospital or anywhere under Mycroft’s control, he’d probably be right back there. Well, this time the questions and physicals wouldn’t be quite so invasive, nor would he be sent back out as a deadly honey trap. Now, he would cause questions and problems for Mycroft, so he was better off hiding out. It was easy enough to hide an omega, as nobody would dare ask too personal a question in polite society, except the CIA. Americans and all that. 

John had bought a new parka a week ago and made a few other preparations. He’d even been given a bedroll from a church group, a bunch of plastic grocery bags knitted into a lightweight mat that rolled up. It did more than provide cushioning; it also kept him off the cold of the ground. Now, as he settled into his chosen shelter, it would be the floor of his nest. The construction on the building had stopped, so John knew he wouldn’t be found, and could rearrange things. 

He’d chosen the half-built flat based on the view, and put his mat against the wall facing that view. Pulling two sawhorses over left him coughing to hack up a lung, but when he recovered he draped a plastic painter’s tarp over his makeshift tent. The plastic would keep in his body heat, which was the best he could hope for. He’d been gifted a week’s worth of antibiotics from one of his patients, and had cans of food and bottles of water. He was going to curl up and heal, hoping to get this out of his system before he forced himself to go to the hospital. He stared out the window, letting the view gradually lull him to sleep. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

As the trap closed around him, Louis believed in karma. He’d worked so hard to avoid the omegas, to avoid the loss of control of a heat, and now his control had been stripped from him, forcing him to submit to the omegas. There were three in this small room, currently involved in each other, but they’d move toward his alpha hormones as soon as they smelled them. They were three of the older omegas, which indicated something, maybe that they would all be killed in here. 

Louis pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth, inhaled, and held it. He needed to think, and the hormones were getting to him. Oh, hell, they’d noticed him, slowly pulling off of each other to crawl to him. Janis was old school, and had found a reason not to trust him. There was a cliché for it, but it was basically ‘never trust an alpha who can resist an omega’s heat; he’s capable of anything’. Though, at this moment, Louis wasn’t sure he was capable of taking another breath. 

The hormones would get through, and with the sight of that one humping his leg while two of them fought over his clothed erection, oh, he didn’t stand a chance. They’d lured him here with a lie, he’d known it was a lie but not what it was about, so he’d come, looking for an escape opportunity as he did so. The room was built to lock in upset omegas and alphas, not thinking people. If he could just think, he could get out of here. Jerking his head back, so as to not see what was going on around his dick, Louis felt the lump in his neck. 

He’d always know it was there, even if he didn’t know what it was, but right now he knew it could save his life. It was hard to pull his knife out of his trouser pocket with so many pleasurable activities going on down there, but he managed it. His hands were trembling as he opened it, holding it securely in his right hand. The left groped around until it outlined the lump and pulled it away from his neck. Trying to feel only what was going on in his cock, Louis slashed the back of his neck. 

The pain shocked his system and he dared to take another breath. Any hint of alpha hormones right now would send him into the possessive rage of an alpha, and not help him escape. Pulling the lump out of his neck, Louis threw it across the room, bouncing it against the wall. Something flooded him, something stronger than desire, though it made pre-ejaculate leak from him. 

John. He could feel John again. 

John was awake, but drowsy. His mind was steady, but calm, as if his thoughts were orderly and focused. Holding it all together was a thread of sorrow, an ache that Sherlock knew was for him. John was in pain, and Sherlock had allowed himself fall so deeply into his undercover character that he forgot John. He’d justified his actions, thinking they’d know he was a fake if he did otherwise, but it went a long way to killing his erection. 

This only made the omegas work harder for it, so Sherlock let them at it while he plotted. There were hinges on the door, and he had his sharp knife. A perfunctory ejaculation later, as he was only human, and Sherlock wedged his knife into the bolts of the hinges. Popping the bottom one and then the top one out, Sherlock peered around the door. He was disappointed that there weren’t any guards, and rested the door against the wall. 

The omegas crawled after him, mewling pitifully. Sherlock pulled them to their feet, got behind them and pushed them in the direction he wanted to go. Four rooms over and they were at the side of the building, where the after-thought of a fire escape was attached. The owners had put a great deal more thought and money into the alarm system than the mandatory fire escape. Sherlock knew if he opened the window, the monitor room would get a signal, send up guards, and then check the cameras. Same monitor room where Janis had all but told Shark that he was suspicious of him, since he hadn’t spent most of his salary on the omegas he protected. 

The omegas were naked, so Sherlock used his knife to cut the shoulders of his undershirt. Some ripping and wiggling, and he got most of the material off of him. His outer clothes were the cheap material of a man in Shark’s line of work, but the undershirt was a hidden remnant of a man raised in comfort. A few puffs got a cigarette going, John would hate that he was smoking again, and was then used to light the scrap of shirt on fire. The cotton and silk blend burned with a great deal of smoke, setting off the fire alarm. 

Tossing it toward a door, Sherlock physically lifted the omegas onto the fire escape. The cold air shocked them, pulling them from their heats enough to be confused by the situation. When Sherlock did his alpha growl on them they obeyed instinctively. Down and move he ordered, and they trembled as they worked to obey. The last two flights were torture for them, so Sherlock moved to the front and slowly carried them down, one at a time. 

Fire trucks and ambulances were arriving as he finally got the last one down. A cop came over with a grey shock blanket, and Sherlock almost asked why it wasn’t orange. Then the paramedics were there, as other people began to stumble out of the house. The paramedics cared for Sherlock’s omegas as the firemen began to enter the building. 

Looking, Sherlock noticed his flaming shirt had done more than distract the criminals inside. Apparently, the old building had been waiting for the right kind of spark and would be gone in a few minutes. A hand on his arm made him jump, but it was just a paramedic asking about the blood on his neck. Knowing Janis had marked him for death, Sherlock knew he’d need to be leaving soon. As such, he replied in Italian, making it clear that was the only language he spoke. 

After much pointing, he let the paramedic sit him in the ambulance and examine his neck. She cleaned the wound and put the edges together with butterfly bandages. She tried to convince him to go to the hospital in passable English, probably the closest language to Italian that she knew. Looking happy and understanding, Sherlock agreed. By now, other survivors were emerging from the fire, and Sherlock didn’t want to stick around. Considering how busy the paramedics would be this night, he doubted she or anyone else would ask for him at the hospital. 

It might even take until the morning for Janis to notice he was still alive. A quick mental review of the belongings at Shark’s flat showed they weren’t worth going back for, even if he did have time. He took off in the direction of the hospital, but was soon lost to sight in the maze of backstreets. He needed to get out of the country, touch base with Mycroft, find out how John was doing, and figure out his next move. 

John. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Everything was dry and fuzzy, so John blinked open his eyes and smacked his lips. He looked around, but best as he could see, all of his water supply was gone. He’d thought he’d brought enough, but there might be working water in the building, if he could just get up the energy to look. His head was spinning, though he noticed he wasn’t coughing anymore. 

The lack of coughing was a good thing, showing that his lungs are healing, unless the pneumonia was hiding behind his dehydration. That would be really bad, and he knew he needed to get some water, so John forced his body to move. Shifting around so he could start the long, exhausting process of going to the nearest plumbing feature, John paused to wonder if he spilled some of his water and was sitting in it. Except the puddle was body temperature. 

No, hell no. He mentally commanded his body, but it wasn’t listening. His fever might not have broken, but as he was in the first stages of heat, he was no longer able to tell. He was sick, exhausted, malnourished, and not near any alphas; so there was no reason for his heat to start now. A slight squirm confirmed the familiar ache, and John groaned at the unfairness of it all. At least he’s behind doors, and not out on the street for this. Though, if his heat is going to return regularly, he’ll have to go back to Mycroft or risk killing off London’s population of homeless alphas. 

Carefully, so as to not mess up his plastic tent that holds in the warmth, John started pulling off his clothes. His oldest pair of underwear were pressed into service to stop up the leak from his arse, and John tried to mentally ready himself. He’d only been through a few solitary heats since he was discovered by Mycroft, so he knows he won’t be able to mentally sink into it. He’ll spend the whole thing completely aware of the ache that wasn’t being filled, without the distraction of trying to figure out what the alpha did to get Mycroft’s attention. 

With Sherlock, even his microheats had been fantastic. He’d been able to shut off his brain and let Sherlock pleasure him, own him, and enjoy it, except for that first microheat together. He’d worried about it after his rescue, and the fear for his child had kept them apart. Pregnant with another’s child, and still nervous from the way that child had been conceived, John feared Sherlock’s alpha nature would cause problems. Alphas had been known to beat their omegas during a heat, when each touch was read as pleasure. The omega would come out of their heat with abdominal bruises, and have a miscarriage shortly afterward. 

Sherlock hadn’t done that, had instead treated each microheat as a treasure. Sherlock had also surprised John in other ways, more so than any head in the fridge. Sherlock had noticed how stiff John had been, the way he had flinched from contact for months after Moran. The possessive alpha nature had made Sherlock scent him, but enough of Sherlock had remained that he’d not forced himself on John. 

When he was about three months pregnant and investigating with Sherlock still, they’d been attacked. John had disarmed a man and used that gun to shoot two others. Sherlock had twitched an eyebrow at him, but hadn’t said anything. Two days later, Sherlock had turned up at the flat with a large box. It turned out to be a gun safe, complete with a browning, bullets, and a cleaning kit. John had marveled at the gun, the same model he’d used in Afghanistan, and marveled at the man hiding in the kitchen. 

With his heart thumping in his chest, John had wanted to hug Sherlock, make love to him in the kitchen. But what he’d suffered under Moran had held him back. Setting the gun on the coffee table, John had stood. With determination, he’d walked to the kitchen and to Sherlock. He pulled Sherlock off of his microscope and kissed him. John had meant for it to be passionate, a demanding thank you, but a hand on his hip had him jerking out of it. 

Embarrassed and guilty looking, he’d forced himself to go in for a second kiss, but Sherlock had stopped him. 

“Don’t force this, John. I didn’t, well, I don’t need sex. So, we can wait, until you want to. I can even leave for your heats, after the baby is born.” 

“God, Sherlock, shut up. You’ve heard the same things I have. I’m an omega, I’m made for this. Can’t really rape an omega, since they’re sluts who are always begging for it. So I shouldn’t let this bother me, I should be able to get over it and concentrate on pleasing my alpha. I can’t work and in a while I won’t be able to keep up with you or even hover the flat. This is all I have to show you how I feel. Please, just fuck me and get me over this.” 

“I want to.” Sherlock yelled back, sighing heavy as he started pacing. He headed for the living room for the extra space, and John had followed. “Sure, I starved myself before, my interests in betas or omegas only lasting until they spoke, their idiocy more draining than their smells alluring. I experimented a little, but happily cut that out of my life, until you. I should have lost interest in you after your heat, but you kept being you. And now you’re here, sharing my flat, sharing the Work, making me laugh and eat. I have no idea how I’ve been able to resist you, except this need to please you.” 

Lost, John had reached up to rub at his temples, head dropping a little. This let him look at the gun that had started this, well, not started so much as brought it to a head. Sherlock was a beautiful man and even if he’d been ugly his brain made him gorgeous, but John couldn’t touch what was laid out before him, held back by some primitive fear. 

“Oh.” Sherlock breathed, causing John to look up. Sherlock was looking at the gun, his face holding the expression he got when solving a case. 

“What?” John asked. 

Sherlock had stepped over the coffee table and picked up the gun. Without looking to see if it was loaded or if the safety was on, he brought it over. John took it, frowning at his mate. Sherlock smiled as he stepped back, slowly disrobing. When he was naked and erect, he knelt in the living room floor and put his hands behind his back. 

“I don’t like repeating myself either, Sherlock. What are you doing?” 

“As you hold the gun, I’m doing whatever you want me to.” Sherlock smirked before dropping his head, like a prisoner who’d given up all hope. 

John knew he’d left the safety on, and that the gun was empty, but he also knew he was responding. Holding the gun, knowing he could stop this at any time even if he had to hit Sherlock in the back of the head with the butt of the gun, that power was arousing him. Licking his lips, John had shed his jumper and vest without setting the gun down. Then he was standing before Sherlock. 

“Untie my shoes.” Deft fingers had quickly opened his boots, and helped to pull those loosened boots off. “Zipper.” 

John’s voice had cracked on the command, but Sherlock had obeyed anyway. He’d opened the belt and zipper, and pulled out John’s cock. John was getting hard, but the move had startled him. Sherlock froze, and John realized it was because he’d lifted the gun to Sherlock’s head. When John had pushed back the panic of that action, by mentally assuring himself he’d emptied the gun and left the safety on, he’d found his voice again. 

“Suck. No teeth.” 

Sherlock’s sexual experimentation may not have been long-lived, but he’d learned an incredible amount in that time. John had pointed the gun away from them and toward the floor, so he was able to let Sherlock suck him to orgasm without fear. Sherlock held him through it, his grasp on John’s hips keeping him upright. 

When he was supporting his own weight again, John had gestured with the gun. “To the bed. I want to watch you wank.” 

John had stood over the bed while Sherlock made a production of it, wanking himself to completion while looking hungrily at John’s body and hastily covered penis. Sherlock’s moans threatened to start John’s libido up again, but his overwhelming emotions where fighting against it. When Sherlock came, screaming John’s name, John felt that flood of emotions churn into a mix that left him numb, saturated. Putting the gun on the bedside table, he’d dropped his remaining clothes and climbed into bed. He’d scented Sherlock, and licked up the mess on his stomach. They’d curled up together and fallen asleep. 

Two or three hours later, John had woken up in a microheat. It hadn’t fixed everything, but when it got to be too much, John could reach for the gun. Childish, in way, needing a security blanket to get through the hard times, but very adult in that he’d killed people with his security device. 

From a distance, he was safe with other people. They thought from his nonthreatening nature that he was a beta, until they got close enough to smell the omega on him. John could take most people in a fair fight, omega or not, but the gun kept people a respectful distance away. He only needed the gun with Sherlock because the detective had gone deeper into him than anyone else had ever dared. Sherlock was a part of him, and still respected him. Beautiful, intelligent Sherlock who made love to him.

When John came from his memories, biting his lip to keep from shouting Sherlock’s name, he could almost feel the man again. The link had danced behind them, to be replaced by Mycroft’s weak familial bond when Sherlock fell. For just a glorious little while, John told himself he could feel it, weak as if it was stretched by a great distance. He could slide into this, let his memory drag him under where he couldn’t go in a solo heat. Reaching for it, John let the idea take him, not even concerned when his imagination conjured up someone peeking into his tent. 

“What?” The surprised voice asked, blond hair haloed by the light. John figured Sherlock had dyed his hair for a disguise, part of an undercover mission after his fall. Smiling, John fell for Sherlock. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

John jerked awake and froze, pretty sure there was a razor at his throat. It took a few minutes to recognize the familiar but not recently felt, feeling of shaving. It was always strange when other people did it, least he cut his omega throat, so it took longer than otherwise. He dared to crack an eye open when the blade was removed from his throat and heard a startled noise, followed by a wild laughter. The disposable razor was dropped into a nearby bowl as John took in his laughing captor. 

She was a few years younger than him, with curly blonde hair and laughing blue eyes. She wasn’t wearing the uniform of a nurse or doctor, and a quick look showed they weren’t in a hospital room. If John didn’t know better, he’d think they were in a posh hotel or some castle reconstruction, complete with all the fancy moldings on the walls and ceilings. 

“Oh, you startled me by opening one eye while I was busy. Could have cleared your throat or something, to let me know you were awake.” She laughed again, and John faked a small smile in return. “Are you awake enough for proper introductions?” 

Accepting that he was awake enough to flee, John struggled up into a sitting position. The room spun a little, not helped by the white moldings of old English charm. With her American accent, she probably thought this was all there was to England. She smiled through it all, helping to hold him steady. When he was sitting on his own, she held out a bottle of water, which he took and sipped at gratefully. 

“I’m John.” He finally managed to croak, hoping she wouldn’t press for a last name until he knew what she wanted. 

“Hi, John. I’m Mary Morstan, your new alpha.” She sent him a dazzling smile while John tried not to do a spit-take with the water. “We didn’t really meet before, I just walked in on you while you were, you know. After that, since you didn’t wake up, I sent for an ambulance. They treated you for malnourishment, dehydration, vitamin deficiency, and the after effects of that terrible respiratory infection that’s going around. Deciding you only needed rest, they released you to me, with a handful of prenatal vitamins and a long list of instructions.” 

“Prenatal?” 

“Oh, I should have waited on that! Yes, prenatal, as your hCG levels suggested you had conceived during your heat. You should have heard the doctors going on about that, making me learn what hCG was. They were very concerned that you seemed to be homeless, yet were still fertile. I had to explain to every doctor separately that we’d just bonded and then swear I’d take better care of you than your last alpha. Most of them think he lost all his money in the real estate scandal and dragged you to the streets with him. He must have died or something, leaving you ready to bond, though you were very lucky not to have children out there with you. How close were we?” 

“He ran a Ponzi scheme, we went homeless to hide, and didn’t want to burden our omega children into convincing their alphas to take us in.” John was amazed at how easily the lie tripped off his tongue, supposing his writing had helped with his lying skills. If Mary knew him better, she might see the lie on his face, but for now she bought it. 

“Goodness! I was going to help you find and contact people but if you’re being hunted, I’m glad I didn’t know where to start.” She smiled and ran a gentle hand through John’s hair. “Hospital sponge baths never make you actually feel clean. How about I run a bath and we’ll get you nice and clean?” 

“Sounds good.” That was the truest thing John had said yet to Mary, as a long hot soak sounded fantastic. He could have run the bath himself, of course, but he needed a moment to think. She got up and moved to the bathroom, so John considered his new situation. Pregnant again, with a strange alpha again, and nothing keeping him here. 

If he thought back, he could remember the sudden onset of his heat. He remembered the coughing of the chest infection, the high fever, and the exhaustion. He also remembered Sherlock coming to him, making love to him even as they shared his heat. The people he’d treated with pneumonia mentioned vivid dreams, but not full on hallucinations. Still, with the two combined and stressing his system, it was possible John had developed a unique response in his hallucinations. 

Sliding out from under the covers, John carefully assessed his body before standing. He was sore, and his shoulder was hurting, but that was to be expected. Stretching his neck started a pain in the back of it, and a probing hand found a shallow bite to his gland. Frowning and completely awake, John glanced at his hands: neither wrist showed a bite. Mary’s bite to the gland hadn’t been deep enough to form a bond and she hadn’t used his wrists, so how did she know they were bonded? 

Concentrating, John could feel a buzzing awareness in the back of his mind. It was stronger than the familial bond with Mycroft, but a bee compared to the hurricane his link with Sherlock had been. Mary had claimed him, thought they were bonded, and was claiming his child. Accepting responsibility for a child that might not be theirs, wasn’t really an alpha trait, so what was going on here? 

“Water’s ready. Do you need help walking?” 

A question that John knew how to answer, so he stood. The phantom of psychosomatic pain started in his leg, promising to build to great heights. “I injured my leg a while back. It’s healed, but I need a cane to walk because it can cause me pain.” 

“Okay, I’ll see if I can get one while you’re in the tub. For now, just lean on me.” 

That was easy to do, as Mary was half a foot taller than him and wearing sneakers. John just accepted the joy of not being picked up as she helped him to the bathroom. His hospital gown came off easily, and John slipped as quickly as he could into the warm water. She probably saw all of him naked at some point in the past, but he wasn’t ready to parade around in front of her. 

“You just relax, and I’ll bring that razor in here. I started shaving you in your sleep because I was desperate to see what you looked like. Though I must say, that moustache makes you look like an alpha.” 

Mary brought him the razor and left to get him a cane. Happy to be trusted with a sharp object and warm water, John only considered suicide briefly. As a thank you to her, he shaved but kept the moustache. He’d trim it later, when he could do something about his scraggly hair, but now was the time to clean what remained of him. He’d drained the dirty water and refilled it before Mary came back. She had a large shopping bag and an aluminum cane with her. 

“One of the guys took your measurements and went and bought you some clothes. We tried to go by what you were wearing, but they were so dirty we couldn’t read the labels and nobody wanted to touch them. They’ve been thrown away, but I kept all your stuff. You won’t need any of it, since once we get home we’ll have everything we need, but I thought you might want to decide that.” 

“Thank you.” John said and meant it, for the unexpected consideration. “Where is home?” 

“Lexington, Virginia, CIA just like my Dad before me.” 

“I don’t have a passport.” Not one that he could get to without confronting Mycroft anyway, nor was he likely to get a new one without that same problem. 

“Don’t need one; you’ll travel back on the company plane as my omega. It’s all perfectly legal, and I can’t wait to surprise my parents with you.” Mary spoke, using manicure scissors to cut tags away from John’s new clothes as she did so. “They were hoping I’d settle down, find a nice beta who could survive while I was away at work. But a grandbaby? They’ll never leave you alone!” 

“Fantastic.” John muttered. He’d gotten used to having alone time and now he was going to lose it before the baby even came. 

“I know! You’re starting to prune, sweetheart, get out and see if the clothes fit.” 

John did as he was told, deciding Mary was a whirlwind of activity and he’d best try and keep up. At least until his pregnancy gave him a great excuse not to. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


	6. Starting Again, Again

Sherlock woke to a full body pain he hadn’t felt since his last OD. His brittle bones were clearly dried out, sucking all the moisture from his muscles and skin, in a desperate attempted to keep from turning into dust. His dreams had been hot, and full of fluids, as if he’d held John through a heat. He wanted to groan, disappointed that the dream was only that. He wanted to moan, demand water and answers, but his time on the run had made him more cautious. 

He stayed still, and waited to assess his surroundings. Noise and smell told him hospital, and that he was likely in the room alone. Distantly, he could hear voices, but not well enough to make out words, but the cadence suggested a Romantic language. Forcing his eyes open sent a fist of pain into his head, and his arms moved to cover his re-closed eyes. The left arm managed to cover his eyes, but the right one pretty much stayed where it was. 

It had pulled about his wrist and rattled a little, so as soon as he could handle the light, Sherlock was going to verify that he was handcuffed to a hospital bed. He had no idea how he’d gotten there, or where there was, or why he was handcuffed and not in the padded wrist cuffs of a person who might damage themselves. Sherlock considered that if he had to spend much more time in a hospital, he might be one of those people all too soon. 

Footsteps told him someone came in to look at him. Sherlock carefully cracked his eyelids, and the nurse reached for a cup beside his bed. He drank it greedily, ignoring the doctor who came in until the cup was completely empty. Some French instructions from the doctor to the nurse, and the doctor left. The nurse adjusted some machines and left a few minutes later. 

Not expecting them to leave without talking to him, Sherlock allowed him to be confused by their departure. He wanted more water, but thought about his surroundings instead. He could deal with the language, as he was fluent, but there were many parts of the world that used French. It didn’t limit the number of places he could be, but it was reassuring that he would be able to communicate. As such, when sleep came, Sherlock let it. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

John waited until Mary had slipped out of the room before letting on that he was awake. He waited a few minutes to make sure she’d gone before getting up and using the loo, before making a cup of crap tea. Ever since he’d woken up here, Mary had been kind and solicitous, but not let him leave the suite while he recuperated. Not that John had put up much of a fight about it; he wasn’t ready to be spotted by anyone. Considering what the CIA was looking for, John figured a low profile was best all around. 

Mary had explained that they were doing a sweep of empty buildings in London, looking for a threat to national security. She would only describe that threat as someone undermining morality, and John suspected she hadn’t been read in on what they were actually looking for. He’d asked how they could search for something when they didn’t know what it was, and she’d given the answer of knowing it when they saw it. Putting what Anthea had said with what Mary was saying, John was pretty sure Mary didn’t know it when she saw it, or mated with it. 

It was worrying that they had tracked the books to London and John considered calling Mycroft to cover Mrs. Hudson. On the whole, it might be best if he stopped writing for a while, to let the heat die down. Probably would anyway, as there was no telling how much alone time or freedom he’d have with Mary as his alpha. And babies were a great deal of work, even with grandparents around to help. 

The bond itself was still a mystery to John, as he didn’t feel bonded, especially not like it had been with Sherlock. If anything, it was only a little stronger than the familial bond with Mycroft, and that was a creepy thought. Well, not really. Honestly, John felt he could have done worse than being mated with Mycroft, as he wasn’t that terrible a person once you got to know him. Made of ice, yes, workaholic, oh yes, but considerate of others physical welfare, even if he didn’t understand their emotional needs. It had taken Greg’s unrequited love for the man to make John see that, and he hoped they’d find a way to be together, now that he was out of the way. 

John wasn’t sure how long he’d been thinking and staring into an empty teacup, when the electronic lock sounded. Mary struggled in with several bags and a suitcase, while John stood and tried to make himself look presentable. A finger-comb of the moustache and a straightening of his pajamas didn’t do much, but he liked to be polite around strangers. 

“John dear, did you have a good morning?” Mary said. She managed to get her arms empty and came toward him. 

“Just resting up while I can.” Which was all he’d been doing since he woke up here, but leaving wasn’t an option when he had nowhere to go, and nowhere to hide from a bonded mate. 

Mary pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek and smiled at him, before turning back to her bags. They’d shared a bed, since there was only one in the suite, but hadn’t had sex. John knew from his previous pregnancy that he’d be as randy as goat once the morning sickness had come and gone, but he wasn’t there yet. 

“At the meeting this morning, they gave us the go ahead to leave. They’re still arranging the transport, company owned jets and flight plans, but we should be in Virginia in three days.” She flashed him a grin, but didn’t notice when he failed to grin back. “Since I had the rest of the day off, I went shopping. Got you a suitcase to take your clothes back in, and did a little gift shopping for the folks back home. My Dad pretends to garden, now that he’s retired, so I got him a teapot with a hole cut in the sides, for an indoor garden. And I got an assortment of teas and this cushion for my Mom.” 

John didn’t see her grin at the cushion, only that it had a Union Jack on it. It was new, still with the tags on it, but it was the same cushion he had at home, at Baker Street. John ran, making it just in time to vomit into the toilet. Mary was behind him a moment later, rubbing his back and speaking in soothing tones. Sherlock had stood and watched, unsure if his touch would be welcome. After that thought brought up a fresh bout of vomit, John felt secure enough to sink to the floor and sit. 

“I thought morning sickness only came in the morning.” Mary asked as she flushed the stink away and sat next to him, arm around his shoulders. 

“Common misconception.” John offered. The readymade excuse also gave him the chance to talk about medicine, a context in which he was used to having awkward conversations. “Some people spend their whole pregnancies, day and night, nauseous and unable to eat solid foods. I won’t, I know that from, from before. Just a few weeks, almost a month of this, and I’ll be fine.” 

“Are you going to be okay to fly home?” 

John rested his face on Mary’s shoulder, so she wouldn’t see the answer on his face. No need to take a plane from here to Baker Street, he could walk it easily. If he knew Sherlock would be there, he could try flying without a plane. “I should be fine.” 

“Don’t you worry, dear, I’ll do what I can to help you through this.” 

John nodded into her shoulder and took a moment to compose himself. He’d get over this emotionalism and press on, that’s what the British did. Lifting his head, he managed to ask. “You didn’t happen to buy any of that keep calm and carry on stuff, did you?” 

With a giggle, Mary was up and moving back to her bags. John brushed his teeth while she showed him the rest of what she’d bought. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Sherlock wanted to sleep, which should have made John happy, but there was noise coming from the hallway. 

“I don’t care, I want to see the prick who scared my wife.” A woman’s voice, but with the level of anger only a possessive alpha could achieve. 

“Madam, we must wait for the man to answer questions.” A tired, calming, male voice replied in accented English. Lestrade often had that tone, so Sherlock opened his eyes to see if this man was a cop as well. “He might not even be awake yet, nes pa?” 

The door to Sherlock’s small room burst open, and there she was, the loud female alpha. She was about John’s height, with fine blonde hair, and deep blue eyes. Sherlock found himself sitting up, wondering if he was just seeing what he wanted to see. 

“What business do you have following my wife and child?” She demanded, and the set of her jaw and body screamed it at him: this was John’s sister. 

What was her name? She’d tried to talk John out of hiding, threatened to turn him in, and seen him off for deployment with a ‘don’t come crying to me when you get shot.’ John hadn’t, he’d been given to Mycroft with the knowledge that even his remaining family wouldn’t help him escape. Sherlock could imagine trailing after her to tell her what a horrible person she was, but why her wife and child? 

“Ah, sir, it is good to see you are awake.” The cop had entered the room behind her, and he was trying to give Sherlock a friendly smile. “We have questions for you, as you may have figured out.” 

“I have questions too.” Sherlock said, before he had to stop and swallow against the dryness in his throat. “Where am I? How did I get here? Who is this woman? And who are you, sir?” 

“I am a police inspector, and if you answer my questions, I will answer yours.” 

“He’d better.” Harry growled, folding her arms across her chest. 

Sherlock almost smiled at how easily her name was pulled up by his memory, said in John’s voice. John missed his sister, and still managed to speak fondly about her, even after their last parting. In his stories, she seemed nicer than Mycroft, or at least less calculating. 

“Sir, what is your name?” 

“Victor, Victor Siegerson.” 

“Good. Victor, can you tell us where you identification might be?” 

“No. I’m a British citizen, but I don’t know where I am or remember how I got here.” 

Harry made a disbelieving noise, and the inspector frowned down at him. Sherlock was telling the absolute truth, but that didn’t make it believable. Last he remembered he was fleeing Riga. He’d recovered enough of his senses to know he needed to contact Mycroft, and see if the man had made any progress on finding a connection between the mobile numbers Sherlock had been sending him. Even when he was deeply lost in his Shark personality, Sherlock had remembered to send the mobile numbers. But he’d had to open the bond to get away, and John was all he could think of afterwards. 

“Victor, do you know this woman?” 

Sherlock made a show of squinting at Harry. “Never seen her before in my life.” 

“Why would you follow her and her family all around France?” 

“I don’t…” Sherlock trailed off as he thought about siblings, and how tricky they could be. “Family. May I see the child?” 

“No!” Harry snarled, making herself as big as possible. 

Even if John had been an alpha, Sherlock thought, he’d have refrained from such theatrics. Theatrics were Sherlock’s department after all. 

“Please, I think I might have an explanation, but I won’t know until I see the child.” 

The inspector turned to Harry and they held a quiet conversation. It wasn’t that quiet, but Sherlock wasn’t concerned with listening in. He could have scripted the conversation, as the inspector tried to convince Harry to let Sherlock have his way. The inspector wanted to know if a crime had been committed, while Harry just wanted to prove her dominance. Sherlock spent the time thinking about the lengths Mycroft would go to, in order to achieve his goals. Like faking a death, or maybe two. 

“Sir, the madam has agreed to this, but you must provide a satisfactory explanation before I bring the child in.” 

“My omega died in childbirth.” It was a painful lie to say, so Sherlock used that pain to make it believable. The room became extra quiet around his words, making the rest of the lies easier to hear. “She was petite, blonde, and blue eyed. Recently, and I don’t know how long ago because I don’t know what day it is, so this is about the two year anniversary of her death.” Sherlock had to pause there, because it was about two years since his death, since he’d held John to him. “I get drunk at this time, the only time I allow myself this indulgence, to remember Jo, Joanna, my omega. In such a state, it wouldn’t take much for me to fall into an alpha haze. A stray smell of heat,” glancing up, Sherlock found Harry’s eyes. “A woman who resembles my Joanna, holding the child we should have had.” 

Harry bit at her lower lip, feeling for him. She shuffled out the door, and the inspector made sympathetic noises. Harry returned, arms full, followed by a taller woman with brown hair and an overall mousy appearance. The baby Harry now held wasn’t quite two years old, but he had fine blonde hair and a turned up nose. The eyes he blinked at Sherlock were the same shape as John’s and Harry’s, but a pitiless brown in color. Sherlock knew he was staring, but he couldn’t get enough. There were other genetic markers present, but Sherlock knew that was John’s baby, and hopefully there was enough of John to eradicate the other genes. 

“What’s his name?” Sherlock asked. 

“Jean-Luc.” Harry replied. “We named him after my brother, who died in the war.” 

“That’s beautiful.” Sherlock said. He knew it was a lie, though a well-practiced one; he knew the baby had come with the name. Mycroft would have seen to that. Swallowing heavily, Sherlock made his voice thick with emotion before continuing. It helped that this lie was hard to say. “The eyes and nose, don’t look right. Thank you for letting me look properly, to see he’s not my child. This gift will keep me from becoming obsessed with him, or scaring your omega.” 

“Fine, we won’t press charges.” Harry snapped at the inspector. “But I want you to keep him under lock and key until we leave in the morning.” 

“But of course, madam.” The inspector said, appeasing Harry as she carried Jean-Luc out into the hall. This left Sherlock with the mousy woman, and he was able to focus on her at long last. He knew her too. 

“We’re on our honeymoon, so I haven’t called the office.” She started, and Sherlock tried to look as if her words made sense. “I won’t either, unless you want me to.” 

Sherlock shook his head, unsure of which office she referred to. She wasn’t a cop, so she must be one of Mycroft’s. Flipping through the folder in his mind palace labeled Mycroft’s Minions, Sherlock tried to place her. 

“Madam, are you ready?” The inspector stepped inside to ask. 

Clara, the p.a. assigned to Sherlock in a Dublin hotel as he searched for John. Mousy looking, but she’d stood up to him about taking a shower, and held doors open as he rescued John from that hospital. Mycroft would have put someone he trusted on Harry’s door, to watch over the baby. The marriage would have been genuine, as Mycroft held traditional opinions on the sanctity of the bond. 

“Yes, just one more thing to say to this man.” Clara said to the inspector, and then turned to point a finger at Sherlock. “Oi, you. Oi.” 

“Your crazy English phrases.” The inspector said, trying to sound amused instead of wishing this was all over already. 

Sherlock stared at the door they’d left through, trying to puzzle out what Clara had meant. She hadn’t shouted ‘oi’ in an attention seeking way, like most people who said it. It had been calm, so she was trying to give him a clue, in a hidden way. Though a clue to what mystery? Once he was out of here, Sherlock would look into it. For now, he had to deal with the returning inspector. 

“Well, what am I to do with you then? Heat frenzy, so you don’t remember how you got here, how you got into the country without identification. Very convenient.” He shrugged. “As they are not going to press charges, I will have to let you go. Eventually.” 

“I’ve told you I’m a British citizen. If you gave me to the consulate, I’d spend days trying to get identification. By that time, they’d be gone, you’d have done right by them, and I wouldn’t be taking up your time and resources.” Sherlock was proud of that last one, as it proved he did occasionally listen when Lestrade ranted about overtime and the costs of running a police division. He didn’t care, but he heard the rants. 

“An excellent idea. I will arrange for your transfer to the British supervision.” Grinning, the inspector left. 

In the silence that followed, Sherlock tried to remember back, before he woke up here. All he remembered were feverish dreams about sharing a heat with John. Very nice, feverish dreams, but not helpful. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Sherlock was released to an annoyed representative of the British government a few hours later. This man actually was everything Mycroft worked hard to be perceived as, which Sherlock found interesting. What Sherlock found amusing was how angry this man was about his position; clearly he thought he deserved better than escorting handcuffed men to the embassy. Thus amused, Sherlock waited until they were alone in the back of the embassy car before asserting his superiority. 

“When we get there, I’ll need a complete set of identification, a laptop, a mobile, and some private space to work.” 

“What? I am a junior ambassador to France, not your concierge!” The man whose name was not worth space in the mind palace sniffed. “You’ll get in line for an identity confirmation, just like every other tourist who loses their passport.” 

“Not after you call my boss. Don’t bother telling him my name, as he can’t remember the alias of every operative, but feel free to describe me. His name is Holmes, Mycroft Holmes. Do you need his number?” 

The junior ambassador had turned some funny colors in his anger, but the mention of Mycroft drained all the color from his face. He stared at Sherlock until the car turned into the embassy, when he finally found his voice. 

“I’ll find you a private work space while I work on the other things.” 

“Very good.” Sherlock smirked as he got out of the car and generally walked around like he owned the place. Hopefully the man would at least check with Mycroft before giving him the laptop and mobile, to do otherwise would be an embarrassment for national security, and Sherlock would have to call Mycroft himself. 

For now, he need to think about why he was so amused, elated even, without John beside him. It might be the lack of the bond blocker in his neck, or the fact that Jean-Luc was alive. He really couldn’t wait to tell John about that, once they were both safe. Sherlock allowed himself to dwell on John and Jean-Luc until the ghost of the junior ambassador brought him a brand new laptop and mobile. With the proper tools, Sherlock got to work. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Sherlock was given a room for the night and provided with a credit card, so he decided to order some things to be delivered to the embassy. This kept him out of sight and gave him a reasonably secure base of operations. Mycroft’s people had worked through most of the phone numbers that his Shark persona had sent in, leaving him a large database of people to go through and look for connections, which would become threads in Moriarty’s web. He’d slept well in the hospital, so he didn’t bother with it until he was done sorting the information. Blissfully alone with his data, he didn’t even register Mycroft was in the room until Mycroft’s text alert went off. 

Swinging around, he watched as Mycroft read the text and sent a short supply. Since they were alone, Sherlock walked to Mycroft and sniffed him. Not a trace of John, but a strong presence Sherlock knew, someone who had changed their scent. 

“You bonded with Lestrade?” 

The corners of his mouth curled upward, as expansive a smile as Mycroft allowed himself these days, and Sherlock knew he was correct. 

“Did you kick John out of the house? I should be able to smell something of him on you.” 

A small sigh, and Mycroft pulled something out of the large pockets of his overcoat. The plastic bag held red and white cloth, but cloth that Sherlock recognized even though Mycroft didn’t hand it over. “Have a seat. We have a few things to discuss before I leave you with this item retrieved from the laundry.” 

Sherlock returned obediently to his desk, sitting so he could face Mycroft and the visitor’s chair. 

“Where have you been, brother?” 

Staring at the bagged pair of John’s red pants, Sherlock began to talk. He provided details of how the prostitution and drugs funded weapons trading and other criminal enterprises. When Moran feel, several factions had tried to cut Moriarty’s web into a neat little pie, with slices for each of them to control. It was a good idea, but criminals were greedy. One faction had taken out another, so two other factions were teaming up against that powerful one. Sherlock was looking for the names and proof, so he could set the remaining factions against each other. Eventually, he’d only have to take down the victor. 

“Will this grand plan lead you to your moneyman?” Mycroft asked, after Sherlock had talked himself out. 

“I’m always looking for him; that death is a priority.” 

“Good. Now for the difficult part.” At Mycroft’s words, Sherlock unconsciously rubbed at the back of his neck. “You were already sedated the last time we blocked your bond with John. Without sedation you can expect nausea and headaches until it is working properly.” 

“I don’t want to be unable to function for a day or two.” 

“As I expected, which is why I brought these.” The red pants twitched in Mycroft’s hand, as if there was any doubt what he was talking about. “Smelling them might make the operation bearable, though I will have to take them from you to let the device function.” 

“I hate this.” Sherlock muttered, but Mycroft heard it anyway. 

“It is easier to be a villain than a person in love.” Mycroft allowed, before standing. “Which is why caring is not an advantage.” 

“Nor is it a disadvantage, Mycroft. It is, and it is up to us to use it for good or ill.” 

“I wondered if you’d ever figure that out, brother.” Dropping the bag in Sherlock’s lap, Mycroft went to the door. “Your operation will begin in twenty minutes.” 

Sherlock didn’t wait until the door was closed before pulling open the bag and inhaling. Closing his eyes, he imagined John in some vague, dream-like place where the walls were plastic and the floors unfinished. John was looking up at him with adoring eyes, blue eyes almost lost to the black of his dilated pupils. Lust had a strong grip on him, as he laid back and spread his legs. 

“Sherlock, please, prove to me that you’re real.” Dream John begged. 

Freeing himself from his trousers and taking his cock in his hand, it wasn’t long until Sherlock came from that very vivid imagining. He only hoped that when this was all over, he was really alive and able to prove it to John. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

John was doing a final sweep of the room, double checking that they had everything. Mary was talking, as she did, and John had tuned her out. Her voice was a background noise, much like Sherlock’s had been when he went off on a tangent about crime scene tobacco ash identification not being eligible evidence in a court of law yet. John realized it was a bit of a dick thing to do, ignoring his significant other’s words, but neither of his mates knew how to shut up around him. 

Sherlock had his times of silence, but Mary seemed to be thrilled to have an omega, someone incapable of spilling her secrets, so she told him everything that popped into her head. He wasn’t sure why he should care about the beta maid making eyes at the beta gardener, but he heard about it. Also, Mary had made the curtains in her house in the States, none of which he’d yet to see. Though he was about to, since they were packed up and headed for the airplane. 

A last look in the bathroom showed it was empty and they were ready to go. John frowned at his moustache, still not used to the thing without a beard under it. He thought it made him look old, with all the white, grey, and blond hairs in it. But it did change his appearance, making it easier for him to get on the plane before Mycroft’s minions recognized him. A quick stroke with his fingers to straighten it, and he went to face the world as Mary’s omega. 

John pulled out the handle on his suitcase, though it only held a couple changes of clothes and all the gifts she’d bought for people back home. “Ready?” 

“We got everything?” She replied. 

“Everything but the DNA.” 

Mary giggled, and grabbed her suitcase and garment bag. “Then let’s get out of here.” 

She held the door open, but let John drag his wheeled suitcase. The hallway was echoingly silent, and it was nice for a while. Gave John time to confirm the building had been built to look so British it actually wasn’t; perfect for tourists. By the time they got to the elevator, the silence was getting weird; it was strange to be around Mary and not hear her talking. The lift arrived before John decided to ask, and had some people in it already. 

John moved into the lift behind Mary, expecting only a silent ride down. He didn’t expect Mary to physically press him into the corner, where she could guard him from the other alphas in the lift. John just frowned, as he no longer had the breathing room to get the air for a deep sigh. Hopefully, this possessiveness was simply because the bond was new; Sherlock had gone through something similar. 

The possessive science continued in the cab, and as she lead him through the small airport they were using. John had a vague memory of the airport, so maybe it was one of those Mycroft used for clandestine things, but they did tend to look alike. The private jet was larger than most of Mycroft’s, probably because so many people were booked on this flight. With some alpha posturing, Mary got them an area to themselves, though elsewhere looked crowded. The chairs reclined into beds, and John would find out if they were comfortable after takeoff. For now, he just people watched as everyone gave approving nods to Mary. The tenser she got, the more John forced himself to relax. 

He hoped takeoff would cause her to relax, and it seemed to, until the seatbelt sign was no longer lit. An alpha popped up out of nowhere, and leaned suggestively against Mary’s seatback. 

“Cute and fuzzy is what gets you going now?” He leered at Mary, ignoring John. 

“He’s better in bed than that macho asshole combination you’ve got going on.” Mary replied, with what John took to be forced casualness. 

“God, Mary, I’ve always been turned on by your mouth.” 

“And I’ve been turned off by your smell, so could you take it back to the end of the plane?” 

The man grinned and leaned in closer. “He’s knocked up now; no heats, no fun. I can help you have fun until the brat is out.” 

“Common misconception, that.” John interrupted, having always hated being talked about like he wasn’t even there. Mary looked surprised, but the strange alpha looked irritated. “I can continue to have sex until it gets uncomfortable, probably because of the weight of carrying another person on my front side. But I think sex with you would be pretty uncomfortable at any time.” 

They all waited on the alpha to figure out how he was going to respond, as John didn’t want to embarrass Mary in front of her colleagues. He didn’t know what Mary was waiting on, but it was probably because this was her work, and not just because of whatever history she had with this alpha. John was aware of her, but kept his focus on the unknown alpha, as there was only so much crap he was going to put up with. Though, beating down a CIA agent might get him more attention than he wanted. 

“David, Mary,” a new voice called, breaking into the situation. Another alpha male entered the semicircle made up of the four chairs and small table. This one was older, and had an air of command John recognized. When he saw John, he gave him an onceover, but without the predatory edge John was used to. 

Long established bond then, probably several children, Sherlock’s voice informed John’s brain. Safe to interact with. 

“And Mary’s mate, it’s nice to meet you.” He held out his hand, so John shook it. “I’m their supervisor, Doug Cook.” 

“John, and it’s a pleasure.” 

“I needed a quick debriefing before you get that R & R you deserve so much.” Doug’s eyes flicked around the circle to land on John, and John got the hint. 

“I hope you can do that without me, as I need to pop into the loo.” 

Mary sent him a look of pleased surprise, so John grinned at her before getting up. Making his way to the back, John tried not to notice the gaze of every alpha on the plane. After waiting his turn in line, John actually did need to pee, but he took his time anyway. John didn’t let himself notice that a couple of the guys who’d come out before he got in were now standing in line for the bathroom. Idiots hoping for a scent of omega in a closed room, not realizing he’d had the vent on. 

Returning to Mary, John found Doug and David had left and Mary was very interested in her laptop. She still relaxed the line of her shoulders when she realized he was there, as she was worried about him going to the loo alone. She seemed busy, so as he would with a working Sherlock, John left her to it. After fighting with the ridiculous amount of technology in the seats, John got it to recline. He then pretended to sleep until he actually did. 

He woke in time for a terrible meal, which Mary ate one-handed as she worked. Another visit to the loo, where he forgot to turn on the vent, and he watched a movie until he was ready to sleep again. He woke to the announcement of the landing and watched as the plane touched down. The sun was just going down here, on a small, private looking airport, much like the one they’d left from. There was no passport control or customs at Mycroft’s airport’s American cousin, so Mary easily lead him to a large SUV. Once they were seat belted in, Mary began talking again. 

“Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I’m so happy we got back in time. The Morstan’s really do it up right; it’s Thanksgiving and a giant family reunion all at once. Uncle Joe comes up from Georgia, and makes the greatest venison stew you’ve ever tasted. Aunt Bessie’s cake is so good it takes two years off your life and it’s totally worth it. 

“How many people will be there?” John broke in to ask, having paid enough attention to realize the gist of what she was saying. 

“Hard to say, with some kids going to their other families, and sometimes that family just shows up, and once we had a lost group of tourist roll in, so we feed them; I think Junie still keeps in contact with them. We usually try to bring food for a hundred adults.” 

“A hundred family members, tomorrow?” John felt the bit of panic in his voice was very understandable, even in a man who had invaded Afghanistan. He’d been worried about eventually meeting Mummy, but a hundred in-laws at once was terrifying. 

“Does sound like a lot, when you say it like that, but they’ll love you and be really nice.” Mary paused, and seemed to consider the situation. “Tell you what though, we’ll surprise Mom and Dad tonight, so they’ll be really protective, um, I mean, part of the surprise for the family.” 

“Part of?” John stopped himself from parroting the rest of the words. All the things she said and she hadn’t told anybody about their bonding? “You didn’t even tell your parents about me?” 

“At first I wanted to make sure it was all legal and wouldn’t be a problem. Then I wanted to make sure I could bring you home with me, and when I’d be home. After that, it seemed really funny to bring home a person as a surprise. I could call and warn them now, if you like.” 

“No, it’s fine. It’s your family and you know how they’ll respond better than I do.” 

“It’ll be great, really John.” 

“Alright, take me to your parents.” 

“It’s not much further, and my, our house isn’t far from theirs, so it won’t take long to get home after we’re done.” 

Mary talked more, and John slowly lost focus on her words. She just talked so damn much. At long last they pulled into an area of houses, and a few more turns had them pulling into a driveway. The large, three story house would have been turned into flats in London, but here it matched its neighbors in size. Mary paused her words to grin up at the house, happy memories of her childhood home, John figured. 

“Come on. They’re probably in the basement, digging out the Christmas decorations. In between talking and rounds of food, the whole family helps decorate.” Excited, Mary lead the way into the house, and John struggled to keep up with her. She went to the kitchen, reminding John of how unsatisfying their lunch on the plane had been, and past it to an open door and a downward flight of steps. She danced down the stairs, to delighted cries from her family, and John considered making a run for it. 

It was a stupid idea, dismissed as soon as he had it. He’d made up his mind while recovering from his malnutrition and other evidence of his life on the street. He would stay with Mary, and try to keep an ear out for what the CIA had learned. If they got too close to Mrs. Hudson or Molly, he’d contact Mycroft. It wasn’t like he could raise a child on the street anyway, not when he had any other option, but as the baby wasn’t a Holmes so he didn’t expect any help from Mycroft. Gripping his cane, John focused on the discussion happening below him. 

“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming back?” Mary’s Mum asked. 

“I wanted to put you in a mood for good surprises.” Mary’s smile was in her voice. 

“Oh, do tell.” Dad encouraged, while Mom narrowed her eyes and looked wary. 

“Don’t be like that, Mom.” Mary said, but gave her Mom a one armed hug to take the sting out of her words. “You know how you keep trying to find me a nice beta to settle down with?” 

Mom gave a firm nod, but Dad had the grace to look embarrassed by the matchmaking attempts. 

“No need for that anymore. His name’s John.” 

Recognizing his cue, John gripped his cane and limped down the stairs. Focusing on his movement kept him from seeing their first reactions to a broken, skinny omega in too-big clothes. At the bottom of the stairs, he had to look up and offer a tentative smile. Dad stepped forward with his hand out and a huge grin on his face. John shook the hand and tried not to be unnerved by the grin. 

“It’s so great to meet you. I’m Arthur and this is Sophie.” 

Sophie stepped forward but stopped, an action John had seen from many people when they realized he wasn’t as beta as he looked. Her words confirmed his thought. 

“Mary, darling, we’re happy for you, but where did you find an omega?” 

“So suspicious, Mom. Dad’s enjoying my surprise.” 

“Yes dear,” Arthur said, “but I’ve had massive head trauma.” 

Around him, the family began to laugh at what John could only assume was a private joke, and he withdrew into himself a little more. 

“Sorry, John.” Mary said, probably having noticed his reaction. “I didn’t tell you, well, I did tell you that Dad was CIA. I didn’t tell you that he only retired, which Mom loves having him around the house, but he only retired because he was shot in the head and got a medical discharge.” 

“Mary!” Sophie’s voice cut through the bubble of words, and Mary fell silent. Mary’s face was that combination of rebellion and embarrassment that only parents could bring out in their children. There was a moment when they were all silent before Arthur spoke. 

“You’ve just met, haven’t you?” 

“Yes,” John replied, startled by this deduction. 

Sophie sighed and took over the explanation from her husband. “We know our Mary, and when she’d nervous or around new people, she babbles. Or, she’ll freeze into a wall of silence, searching for something to say, having entire conversations in her head to see how they will play out.” 

“I thought it’d keep her out of the service.” Arthur says, pride in his voice. “She doesn’t do it when on a mission, or when there’s an objective.” Arthur nodded at his own words and looked at John intensely. “Unprotected heat?” 

Glancing at Mary, John realized they were very much alike, if their matching blushes were any indication. 

“Yes, sir.” John spoke, determined to save Mary from her parents keen observations. “I hadn’t had a heat since I was widowed, so I wasn’t expecting it. Maybe we were fated to meet, since I hadn’t had a heat in two years and started up just when Mary was nearby.” 

“Two years?” Mary asked. “You didn’t tell me you’d been living like that for two years.” 

“Sweetheart,” Sophie interjected, “did you give him the chance?” 

Mary shook her head and started to giggle. Out of relief and humor, John laughed with the family this time. They quieted and there was a moment of comfortable silence. Thinking of the silenced he’d shared with Sherlock had John breaking it. 

“I’m not blameless in this. I love my, well, loved. No, I still love him, even though he’s dead.” John shook his head and started again. “In my mind, I’ve been contrasting everything Mary does with what he would do, instead of asking why she did something or getting to know her. If I’d been comparing Mary and him, I’d have noticed that I met both of them during a heat, that I had to get to know them while pregnant.” John noticed Arthur grin at that, but kept talking. “So, I’m going to try and stop doing that. I’m going to get to know Mary, and try and let her get to know me.” 

Mary gave him a beautiful smile, and held out her hand. John shook it as she spoke. “Hello, John. It’s wonderful to meet you.” 

For that moment, John believed it was wonderful to meet Mary too. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


	7. Settling in to a New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settling in to their new lives, they all have to make adjustments.

Mycroft picked up a small plate, and placed four scrumptious looking bite-sized cakes on it. As was standard for an office affair, he would carry those four treasures around all evening, and only allow himself to eat them if the meeting was a success. Some of the omegas on display were probably the only ones who thought this was a real party; a _social_ gathering. Gregory had understood that Mycroft only came to take part in the politics and power plays that extended from the offices to the gatherings. 

Gregory also seemed to realize that Mycroft was not yet ready to parade Gregory around as his significant other. He understood, even as he seemed saddened by the idea. Pulling away from thoughts of Gregory, and where he’d rather be right now, Mycroft turned his attention back to the Whitehall Christmas Party. It was another week until Christmas, and there would be grander events to attend, but this one was mostly for the higher-ups in the government, and was not mentioned to the press. As such, when Mycroft was surprised to see a certain someone, who was not on the guest list, he got a better look. 

Sliding easily across the room, Mycroft noticed Kurt Paulette had a wire in his ear. The fool had been routed from Mycroft’s service after allowing John to, well, escape made it sound like John was a prisoner. Paulette’s incompetence had facilitated John’s unauthorized dissolution of his protective custody. This had allowed Mycroft to get rid of Paulette, demoting the man as he was sent to the Artists Rifles. This had turned him into a glorified security guard, though he should not have the clearance to work functions like this. Pulling out his phone, Mycroft sent a quick text to Anthea. He’d only just sent it when his name was called, and the politics began. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 

As the politicking made way for the drinking and dancing, Mycroft knew he was almost able to leave, and he considered the four little treats on the plate in his hand. Currently, the odds were 75% that he would get to eat them. Two of the contacts he’d talked with tonight had proved reluctant to do what Mycroft wanted, but he was fairly certain he’d be able to convince them soon enough. Then there was a soft pop in his left ear, as the earwig he wore kicked on. Finding a secluded spot was easy, so he could listen to whatever Anthea had chosen to let him overhear. 

“Really, Kurt, you shouldn’t use the bar when you’re working these events.” 

“Relax Anthea, or the stick up your arse will be longer than Mycroft’s.” Working on inebriation, Kurt Paulette’s voice had an annoying whine to it that had Mycroft frowning at the way his name was said. 

“Your relaxation is allowing you to say too much.” Anthea warned, colleague to colleague. 

“Your precious boss took a highly trained operative and had him guard an omega, a cute little number that I couldn’t even play with. Why couldn’t I play with John, since your boss wasn’t using him. Perfect Mycroft, who couldn’t even get it up for an omega in heat, so clearly he’s not going to fuck you, Annie.” 

“It is spectacularly bad observation skills like that, and letting that cute little omega outsmart you, that got you sentenced to being a security guard, Kurt. Learn from that.” 

“You bit…” Kurt started to say, accompanied by a sloshing sound. There was a solid thunk, and then only the background noise of the party. Another pop told of the earwig being turned off, and Mycroft popped a cake into his mouth while he deduced what had happened. Kurt had turned to Anthea with a drink in his hand and a curse on his lips. She’d responded by shoving his head against the nearest hard surface, likely a wall, and letting that effectively end their conversation and his consciousness. Delicious. 

Mycroft was savoring his fourth cake when an anxious looking security advisor found him. “Mr. Altenburg, what a pleasure to see you this evening.” 

“Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Altenburg started and stopped, before finding his words and continuing. “I am terribly sorry that I encouraged you to take on Kurt Paulette. I clearly thought higher of him than he deserved, and after what he’s done tonight, drinking while on duty, I recognize that you were right to fire him. I am washing my hands of his career tonight.” 

“Of course, we all make mistakes. Don’t think on it another moment.” Mycroft replied, a kind smile plastered onto his face. Nothing gave away that he knew Kurt was Mr. Altenburg’s second omega’s cousin, granted his job only out of nepotism. And certainly, Mycroft didn’t give away any satisfaction knowing that Mr. Altenburg had just given him free reign to do whatever he wanted to Kurt. A few more polite words with Mr. Altenburg, letting him know that he owed Mycroft now, and Mycroft left the party. 

Altenburg hadn’t wanted to work with the incompetent man either, so he’d foisted him off on the first division that had needed his help for something. Mycroft had read the man’s evaluations and assessments, looking for some role for him, and he’d know Kurt couldn’t stop John if he wanted to go. Mycroft had counted on John not wanting to go, or at least not planning so far ahead that he knew when Kurt would be rotated into the duty roster. 

Even suppressing his omega nature, John was better than Kurt, and Kurt had mocked John whenever he thought he was out of Mycroft’s observation. In a fair fight, in difference to the season, John would make mincemeat of Kurt. In fact, Kurt could only hope to be half the man John Watson was. 

Planning, Mycroft carefully schooled the smile off his face, not wanting to give his driver nightmares. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

A Mexican drug cartel was backing legislation that dealt harsher punishment to marijuana offense, and would make it harder for pot to ever be made legal. The cartel liked this kind of legislation, as it made their business more profitable and they didn’t have to pay taxes. Sherlock flew into Dallas, Texas, knowing that several politicians were being blackmailed or bribed by the cartel. Blackmail could be fixed by returning the proof of the politician’s indiscretions, so a few burglaries would take care of that. 

Bribes meant serious money, the kind even a cartel might need a middleman to distribute or the politicians would need a middleman to hide. Sherlock had to infiltrate the cartel, though it would be easier to do it from the politician’s side, and hope he wasn’t recognized or shot, or both. Still, Sherlock found time to browse the books for sale at the airport, looking for Kitty Riley’s books. 

She hadn’t put out a new one in a while, but he’d be happy for the front cover that was burned with Shark’s identity. It was as close to John’s picture as he could carry, something he wanted even with his photographic memory. He recognized it as a weakness, a sentimental defect, but he still looked. And not finding what he wanted, he moved on to destroying the corrupt politicians and the drug cartel. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Just when the drive seemed endless, a Mobius strip of a country lane, the expensive car pulled through some trees and a gate. The turn onto the driveway was a short-lived relief, as turned out to be as Mobius as the road. As the last of his patience drained away, Greg turned his head to demand attention from Mycroft. His lover was outlined by the ordered gardens and stonework of a castle, incongruous with Mycroft working on an electronic tablet. 

“You lot were posh before posh was a word.” Greg muttered, not noticing the slight smile it got out of Mycroft. Greg was looking for something else to say, but could only think that the tasteful Christmas decorations made it into a fairy castle, when Mycroft finally spoke. 

“I do hope she hired an outside crew to decorate, or I shall have to double the servant’s Christmas bonuses.” 

Greg was about to mutter about being able to afford triple, when he saw how stiffly Mycroft was sitting. Mycroft was in his patented ‘I run the world but don’t tell anybody’ posture, that formal way he got before meeting dignitaries with less than rational thought processes. Not knowing why he was apprehensive, Greg simply put a comforting hand on Mycroft’s knee and took in the view. 

The car eventually stopped, and Greg wondered if it was simply because they were out of petrol. Apparently, the vast tunnel they’d stopped under was actually a large stone awning around the front door. Getting out of the car and stretching wasn’t, perhaps, as graceful as it could have been, but it was certainly necessary. The trunk was opened and emptied before Greg was ready to grab his stuff, so he waited for Mycroft to emerge. The servants had disappeared inside before Mycroft was there, linking his arm through Greg’s. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, “I do love you.” 

Before Greg could respond, or ask what brought that on, the front door opened. A woman emerged, tale, pale, elegant with silver hair and a diaphanous dress. 

“Come to Mummy, my darling.” She called, raising her arms. 

Greg froze, recognizing the voice, and putting it with the face he hadn’t seen on a movie screen for years. Miranda Pearlman, who’d won every award for acting there was, and been the subject of generations of alphas and betas wank fantasies. Including an impressionable young Gregory. 

Mycroft stepped forward and received an air kiss on each cheek. He then turned and looked at Greg, the entreaty in his eyes enough to get Greg moving. He took Mrs. Holmes’ hand and brought it to his mouth for a gentle kiss. 

“Mycroft,” She turned to him to speak, “You said you were bringing an assistant. But this young man is clearly too much of a gentleman for such a role.” 

“Mummy, you know perfectly well that Anthea will be here later. This is Gregory Lestrade.” 

“Hello, Greg.” Miranda turned her full attention on Greg, with the smile that lit up a million screens at once. “You must be an actor, as beautiful as you are.” 

Greg made an embarrassing embarrassed noise and looked at his feet. 

“Since my son didn’t tell me he was bringing such a handsome friend, I’ll have to find something in the house worthy of you.” 

Looking up, meaning to protest, Greg lost his words as she turned away. 

Mycroft casually shoved Greg backwards, forcing him down the few steps and into some fresher air. A few breathes and Greg was shaking his head, trying to get his brain back online. When it finally felt like it was getting there, Greg turned to Mycroft, but what came out of his mouth was unexpected. 

“That’s Miranda Pearlman, the first omega to ever play an alpha in the movies.” 

“Outside of a Shakespearian play made into a movie.” 

“I learned to wank to her.” 

A spasm twisted Mycroft’s left eye, but he waited for anything else Greg might be compelled to add. Fortunately, Greg’s brain started working again just in time to shut his mouth with a click. 

“Mummy has extremely powerful hormones, and masterful control of them.” Mycroft offered, as if he’d lived through this several times before. “She is able to act so well that she can even convince her body of what she feels.” 

“Is that what it’s like to be an alpha around an omega in heat? Going caveman?” 

“I cannot say exactly, but that is essentially correct.” 

“Fuck.” 

Mycroft winced. 

“Not you. I mean, yes, I’d rather fuck you than your mother, but…” With his brain back on high speed and not dial-up internet, Greg was able to shut his mouth again. This time, it would stay shut until a plan came along. 

“It is cold today.” Mycroft remarked. “Would you like to go inside now?” 

Greg linked their arms, and let Mycroft lead the way. After a long tour of the house guided them to Mycroft’s bedroom, they began to refresh themselves for dinner. Greg had developed enough of a plan to ask about things he should have asked long ago. 

“Why didn’t you tell me who Mummy was?” 

“She prefers that people respond genuinely, as it appeals to her ego. She does like to know she still has fans.” 

“Why’d she stop acting?” 

“Probably wanted to relax and enjoy her retirement.” Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at Greg, who went back to pulling on his socks. 

Retirement was their code word for suspected eavesdropping, and Greg hadn’t expected that to come up in the family home. His code word to show he understood was rather condescending, but that was part of the Holmes charm. “I’m thinking,” he said, lifting his own eyebrow at Mycroft. “Thinking there has to be a quicker way to get here. We’d have had to camp overnight if we were coming by horse and carriage.” 

“There is a helicopter pad behind the garage.” 

“Then why did we drive?” 

“Anthea had to retrieve some documents before coming up here, and needed the helicopter more.” 

“Well, if your mother gets tired of me fawning all over her, we might have to take the helicopter out of here.” 

“Mummy always has time for her fans.” Mycroft drawled, but gave Greg a quick kiss before dragging him down for dinner. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Sherlock had always been interested in, what he called, the Christmas phenomenon. Even the hardest of criminals, murderers without a relative in the world, would take Christmas as a holiday. He did wonder if that Moriarty would honor the tradition, but John had solved that problem for the world. At any rate, he would have thought Christmas the perfect opportunity to commit any number of crimes. 

People were too busy buying things, in the weeks leading up to it, that they wouldn’t notice a daylight robbery. On the day itself, the police officers split shifts so everyone would have some time with their families that day, and while at work they were thinking about that time off. Even those who didn’t think of it as a religious holiday still expected everything to be wonderful, every year, no matter how bad the years before had gone. For Sherlock, this meant Christmas has been boring, before John. 

Before John, Sherlock ran full speed into whatever was ahead; danger, drugs, death. With John running, grinning behind him, Sherlock had tried to work out routes that would catch the bad guy and not overtax his pregnant mate. Even though the child wasn’t his, he’d slowed down as John got bigger; if that wasn’t love, what was? John had simply run harder, trying to prove he wasn’t a burden, as if Sherlock couldn’t see the obvious. 

Lestrade could even tell John was perfect, as Sherlock had occasionally overheard him tell his officers after arrests. “When he gets to lock-up, make sure everyone knows he was taken out by a pregnant omega.” 

John wasn’t here, the day wasn’t even half over, and Sherlock was wondering if he could find a working cocaine dealer. Had to be one smart enough to split his shift like the cops. Sherlock’s plans for destroying this Mexican drug cartel were ready to activate, but required a strong police presence. More than that, it required the criminals to be gathered together to be arrested, not at home drinking eggnog or whatever the local favorite was. 

Looking around his dismal motel, Sherlock considered hiding in his mind palace or going out for that enterprising dealer. Something fell loose from his mind palace, reminding him of a research project he hadn’t finished. The beta raising Jean-Luc, Clara, had told him oi. A quick search hadn’t produced anything of interest, but he hadn’t bothered to dig deeper. Now he had the time, and needed the distraction. 

Opening his laptop, Sherlock made sure all his proxy servers were functioning, not wanting to be traced even with this innocuous search. Oi hadn’t brought up anything before, so he capitalized both letters and put a space between them. Some mental shifting, and he started typing in letters after the o but before the i. The list he’d come up with was arranged by commonality of the letters verses how often the actual words were used. Omega was fifteenth on the list, though it would have been higher if he didn’t want to wade through pages of tawdry porn. He hated to even data mine like this, but the clue had to be simple enough that even Mycroft’s minions could crack it. 

The autofill proved useful for once in Sherlock’s unusual search history, listing the Omega Institute as a possible answer. Opening it in a new tap, Sherlock glanced over the website of the not-for-profit. It was prosaic and banal, as most were, geared toward funneling money into the organization. Thinking the legally required list of major donors might help, Sherlock clicked on that link. His practice at scanning bookstores for a certain book by Kitty Riley made her name pop out at him, though it was far down the alphabetical list. Interested, Sherlock clicked around until he found something completely unexpected; research articles coauthored by Doctors Hooper and Watson. Fighting a strange desire to hug his laptop, Sherlock started reading. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Listening to the Royal Christmas Message had never been a part of the Lestrade family Christmas, no matter what Greg told anybody who asked. This year, Greg settled down for it, desperate for a way to stay awake. Anthea had arrived early that morning, the helicopter waking Greg. She’d joined them for lunch without seeming particularly disturbed by having to cancel any plans she’d had. 

The only emotions she’d shown had been during the gift giving. She probably expected some polite nod to her working during Christmas, a meaningless but expensive work related gift. Greg had no idea what that might be, as novelty handcuffs or other things coppers might give each other didn’t seem appropriate, but Mycroft no doubt had a list. The long jewelry box could have held a simple watch, but it was only when she opened it that she looked surprised and pleased. Greg didn’t know much about jewelry, but he knew he didn’t want to know the actual price of that diamond and ruby bracelet. 

Greg hadn’t been nearly so composed when he opened the fancy box from Mummy, the one that made him think of a pirate’s chest. He figured Sherlock and Mycroft had played pirate with it at one point, but still treated it gently. He’d opened the latch and lid, only to stare dumbly at the thirty-year-old single malt Talisker Scotch. He must have stared for a while, because Mycroft had to interpret for him. 

“Gregory is very impressed, Mummy, and is unsure how to best show his appreciation.” 

“It’s nothing, Gregory, I’m simply pleased you like it.” 

Greg had carefully laid the bottle back in the padded chest, and set it on the small table near him. He wasn’t used to the servants, but he really hoped one would carry the bottle to his room, so he could leave it behind without managing to break it. Yes, the Holmes were posh and rich, but it was so expensive as to make Greg feel like a beggar. Clearing his throat, Greg managed to make some of that known to Mummy. 

“It’s too perfect. Thank you.” Mycroft could translate that for Mummy later, when her staff reported the whiskey had been left behind. 

For now, Greg had to get through the Queen’s Speech without showing how uncouth he was and falling asleep. A bit of _God Save the Queen_ played as the time for the speech began, and he remembered John’s phone playing that when Mycroft called. Swallowing a giggle, Greg pretended Mycroft was giving the speech. When he imagined Mycroft in the crown and gown, Greg bit his lower lip to keep the laugh back. It got him through the speech though, and he would have liked some alone time with Mycroft to take him out of that royal finery. 

“Anthea,” Mycroft stood at the end of the speech. “We should see to that work that couldn’t wait, forcing you to come all the way out here.” 

“I don’t mind, sir. It’s a beautiful estate.” This last was said to Mummy, who gave a gracious nod. 

“You are welcome to use your father’s study. Gregory will escort me upstairs, so I can dress for dinner.” 

“I’d be honored.” Greg said, so quickly he sniffed for the pheromones Mummy used to get her way. He didn’t smell any, but he was only a beta. He’d even started calling Mummy’s special brand her queen bee pheromones, as he knew that wasn’t something just any worker could do. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing as he lead Anthea away. Greg stood and offered his hand to Mummy. Together, they were at the top of the staircase before either spoke. Greg got a waft of queen bee pheromones and tried to keep his head. Her request, when it came, was so reasonable he wondered why she’d bothered. 

“Would you like to see Mycroft’s nursery?” 

“Yes, very much so.” He was always interested in anything Mycroft, and usually interested in anything Sherlock, so he gladly followed up a flight of stairs and to the end of the hallway. He must have predicted the presence of bees, because he felt one sting him just outside the nursery door. 

Later, when Mycroft woke him, he was on their bed and it was time to dress for supper. Mind fuzzy, Greg put the strange memories out of his head and got up. Greg slept so deeply that night that he didn’t even think of the nursery again. They took the helicopter home before lunch the next day, and unwrapped each other as Christmas gifts. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Mary's schedule wasn't as unpredictable as Sherlock's, but it was irregular. As such, John was used to waking up alone in the bed they shared. He could have slept in the guest room of the two bedroom house, but they'd already gotten used to sleeping together in England. The first night here they'd crawled into bed together, without talking about it, exhausted from the plane trip and the emotional meeting with her parents. 

Thanksgiving hadn't been as bad as John feared, mainly because all anybody wanted to talk about was a sport John knew nothing about and the baby. For once, he was grateful he wasn't as important as the child he carried. Mary or her parents had been beside him for the whole day, Arthur even escorting him to the bathroom before John politely pointed out that wasn't necessary. They'd returned to the house that day, and been almost into their respective food comas when Mary had spoken. 

"John, I like having you here, but if you wanted to sleep alone, we could convert the guest room into your room. Then you'd have a place that was completely yours." 

John had thought about it, once he got over his start. Finally he'd rolled over and given her a gentle kiss. "It means so much that you'd be willing to do that for me. But I'd rather stay, as the more time I spend with you the better we get to know each other. Also, I'm highly am mused by the way you snuffle in your sleep." 

"Snuffle?" 

"Sniffing everything, trying to bury your nose in your pillow, or lately, my neck. It's cute." 

"Cute?" Mary had replied, mock indignation clear in her tone. "I'm a highly trained CIA agent and a first class alpha; I do not snuffle." 

"Oh, yes you do. Like a pig after a truffle." 

"Now I'm a pig?" 

"An adorable, highly-trained, potbellied pig, with huge tusks." John didn't know if potbellied pigs had tusks, but it had made Mary laugh, and snuffle into his neck. She did it as a joke, but later, when she was asleep, John woke from his daze to the tickling sensation of her snuffling his scent gland. 

They'd shared a bed ever since, and casual kisses. Though John had only ever dated beta women, the few people not interested in penetrating him with more than fingers, he was falling into the same ease of companionship with Mary. With what pregnancy did to his hormones, he could go for a little more than a friendly peck on the lips. At least with waking up alone, he didn't have to fight for the bathroom. That taken care of, he wondered down to the kitchen to put on some tea. 

They'd waited until Tuesday after the holiday to go shopping, expecting the stores to have restocked since the Thanksgiving plunder of edible goods. Making a day of it, they'd had fun, until John had stopped in the tea isle. Some brands were international, but his familiar flavors weren't. By the time he'd got a good selection, Mary was playing with her phone, that same bored attitude John had learned to dread in Sherlock. With a kiss, he'd made it up to her and went about their day. He hadn't dared mention the kettle he would need to make the tea, figuring he could buy one later. 

Between getting his identification, John Henry Morstan, a debit card, and signing up for driving lessons, he'd let the kettle slide. The Henry was to make it easier to hide, as Henry was a much more common name than Hamish. Newly christened, John had made do with her coffee pot when it didn't have coffee in it, but nothing tasted the same. Christmas Eve had been just the two of them, and he'd managed to get Mary a knife that looked like an ordinary key. Not very personal, but he knew where to get such things and figured the CIA agent would appreciate it. She'd surprised him with an electric kettle, and a huge smile at the tea he presented her with a short while later. 

The next day had been another family event, though not as big as Thanksgiving, and they'd both received nothing but baby goods. John didn't mind the used items, but quickly ran out of fake enthusiasm for the endless parade of cute baby clothes. Today was New Year's Eve, but John didn't care about that. His driving lessons were to start on the sixth, which would allow him more freedom. 

America, so far as John had experienced, was not set up for walking to the store. Mary still couldn't believe he didn't know how to drive, or that it had never been necessary before. John couldn't tell her that his army mates had offered to teach him, but the right time never seemed to come along. Once he learned, he wouldn't have a vehicle unless Mary bought another one, but he'd feel better with a means of escape. 

As it stood, he only had two bolt holes in the neighborhood, in case of trouble, though he wasn't sure why he still felt like he had to be on his guard. Whatever danger he had been in died with Sherlock, and he no longer faced down the threats of life on the streets. That logic didn't stop him from learning the code to Mary's gun safe. 

For all he wasn't in danger, John still perked up when the sound of a car reached his ears. Sipping at his tea, he leaned against the kitchen counter and convinced himself to ignore the noises from outside the house. It was only when they came in the house that they could threaten him. The key in the lock was easy to hear, and a look showed Mary smiling in at him through the kitchen door's window. He moved over to open the door, but forced a frown on his face. The amusement on her face changed, showing that she didn't believe he was upset, but he went through with it anyway. 

"What are you grinning at?" he groused. 

"The most adorable man ever." 

"Where'd you leave him?" John asked, looking over her shoulder. 

"Please, like you don't make total strangers ooh and awe at the way you rest your hand protectively over the baby." 

Stepping back, John had to think about it. Mary laughed as she closed the door behind her and pulled off her coat. 

"You didn't realize you did that. Lord, John, you do it all the time, even if you have something in both hands, something's hiding your baby bump." 

Not wanting Mary to think too deeply about why he was so protective of his child, their child, John looked down and pulled his house coat taught. "Can you see it already?" 

Medically, he knew it wasn't visible. Any changes to his body were the result of regular eating and not exercising regularly. Visible or not, he knew it was there, he could feel the changes to his hormones, his eating, and he was very aware of his bladder's role in his life. But he couldn't lose this one too. He glanced up, trying for an amused but worried look, only Mary wasn't looking at his face. Her eyes were lower than his baby, and rather hungry. Oh, but he liked that look. 

“Keep looking at it like that, and you’ll see something grow.” John offered, voice a little huskier than normal. 

Mary looked up with a smile and licked her bottom lip. “Anything I can do, to encourage growth?” 

“Sometimes you just have to play around, see what works.” 

“I do like to play.” Mary said, the teasing clear in her eyes and voice. She leaned in, the kiss going further than they had before. “I have the day off tomorrow, so playing might be a good way to pass the time. 

John leaned in, rubbing his erection against her thigh and hip. When she broke the kiss to gasp, he pulled away. Walking toward their bedroom, they left a trail of clothes behind. Since Mary was dressed for work, her trail of clothes reached further than his, but they were both naked when they reached the bed. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Their day together had been spent lazing in bed and having sex, so Mary was looking very pleased as she got into her vehicle to go to her night stakeout. John decided to reward himself for a good day’s work by having a cup of tea and flipping through crap telly until he was ready to sleep. He’d just put the kettle on and selected a decaffeinated tea when the doorbell rang. Wondering who it could be at this time of night, John peeked out the window to see it was David, the alpha from the plane ride over. 

“Hey,” He called, opening the front door. “Mary’s already left for this night assignment.” 

“That’s what I figured, since I wanted to talk to you.” David smiled. “May I come in?” 

“Can you keep it polite?” John asked, reluctantly stepping aside. David didn’t suspect that John would be able to back up his words with action, or that he knew how to use his cane as a weapon. Hopefully, that would be enough to take down the large alpha if he got impolite. As David closed the front door behind him, John steadied himself into the beginnings of a fighter’s stance. “What do you need?” 

“Is that kid really Mary’s?” David asked without preamble. 

“Yes, of course it is.” 

“I won’t be able to attend the birth then, but I don’t think it will take me long to accept the smell of it.” David nodded, as if all was now settled. 

John felt his adrenal glands start working; protecting his child before it was even born. “Excuse me?” 

David laughed, as if John’s confusion was adorable. If John didn’t need information so badly, he’d gladly bash the berk over the head with his cane. 

“Don’t worry, John. You’ll be around to raise the kid, and spice up our sex life.” David laughed again, apparently thinking the look on John’s face was worry for himself, not a punishment inducing rage. “I know Mary didn’t think we’d work as an alpha/alpha couple, so she went out and got us an omega. You’ll give us something to penetrate, when our baser natures get too much. I thought we could work it out, since she’s a female alpha and can take my cock, but it will be fun when we take you at the same time.” 

John’s cheap cane creaked as his fingers tightened on the handle. “I vote no on the whole thing.” 

David placed his large hand on top of John’s head. “You don’t get a vote, sweetie.” 

“Out.” John commanded, not needing to hear anything else David had to say. “Get out. You’re raising my blood pressure, and that’s bad for Mary’s baby.” 

John’s blood pressure had been fine throughout this pregnancy, but his anger was about to change that. Either way, David didn’t know and would recognize an omega in distress, a pregnant omega that needed protection. David raised his hands in surrender, palms out to John, as he grinned and backed a little toward the front door. 

“Get used to the idea, as it won’t take much for Mary to start wishing for a real alpha’s touch.” 

“Out.” John snarled, and David had the sense to obey, even if he thought John would get over his attitude. John watched David leave, and once he was sure he was gone, John locked the door and started pacing. 

He did make his cup of tea, but he no longer wanted it. He wanted to hurt someone, or to run through the streets after a murderer, anything but plop in front of the telly. Grabbing his cold tea after pacing around the house, John took it to the office. With a pen and paper at the ready, he paused to think about how to make his questions and objections clear to Mary. It didn’t seem like Mary was interested in David, but he wanted to ask her directly. Instead he sat and stared at the blank paper, until he started writing. 

Unmated omegas, convicted of a crime, were forcibly bonded so an alpha could control them. So he wrote of an omega suffragette, who was forcibly bonded to an alpha forty years her senior. By the end of the story, the omega and alpha would be in love, though the alpha would always believe his clever omega was the exception. He would never allow omegas to vote, as it would basically be giving each bonded alpha a second vote, and they held enough power. Their second son, and alpha, would follow his father into politics, and remember his omega mother when casting the vote for omega suffrage. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

There were times when Greg really missed Sherlock’s presence at his crime scenes. Even if the problem was too simple for Sherlock to bother with, he provided clues to where Greg should start his officers looking. Tonight, Greg had missed John and his steady, sympathetic presence. By himself, John was enough to calm down witnesses, and his pregnant hormones would take care of any alphas or omegas on site. 

A group of alphas had decided to get drunk and gripe about there not being enough omegas in the world. Some smooth talker had then got the alphas marching on Parliament, as if that would fix skewed population dynamics. Greg had happily helped contain the alphas and throw most of them in jail. John’s pregnant self would have helped calm everyone down, and the man would be glad to join in any fights that resulted. 

The jails were full, and there would be weeks of interrogations to determine who the smooth talker was and if any charges would be filed. But that, happily, wasn’t Greg’s division. As little more than backup, he’d left all that to someone else and returned to Mycroft’s house. Greg felt he had a good chance of making their Valentine’s dinner reservations tomorrow, leaving only Mycroft’s schedule to negotiate. The sight of lights in the house gave Greg even more hope, hope that was crushed when he opened to the door. Mycroft was in the sitting room, a nice fire behind him and a whiskey bottle on the coffee table in front of him. 

“Oh, My.” Greg said. A romantic atmosphere a day early could only mean one thing. 

“I am terribly sorry.” Mycroft responded, with regret clear in his voice. He reached for the whiskey and poured out two glasses. “The trap I laid at Christmas has not been sprung yet, so I must add more bait.” 

Greg kicked off his shoes and joined Mycroft on the couch. He took the tumbler of whiskey but didn’t drink it yet. 

“I should only be gone four days, a week at the most.” 

“Did you see what I was up to tonight?” Greg asked, moving the conversation away from their upcoming separation. 

“Yes, the CCTV managed to get some excellent footage of you taking down those drunken louts.” 

“Alphas storming Parliament, a seat of government. I kind of expected you to show up.” 

“I knew you could handle yourself.” Mycroft smiled, and carefully avoided mentioning the snipers that had been in place to assure Gregory was not seriously harmed. “Though it did help that Parliament was not in session tonight.” 

“Oh, I see.” Greg replied, hiding a laugh. “The police got to handle things because it was an empty building. I should have known.” Greg tapped their glasses together, and took a sip. It went down like honey on fire, and Greg focused on the bottle Mycroft had just opened. 

“Mummy gave you that whiskey to drink.” 

“I left it at the estate.” Servants had taken it to their room, and Greg had stashed it in a closet instead of packing it home. 

“I suspected as much, but know that Mummy can afford it.” Mycroft had packed the bottle in his luggage, not wanting to offend Mummy by leaving it behind. “She also seems to like you, as I haven’t been threatened with being disowned for dating you.” 

“Would she do that?” 

“Yes.” Mycroft didn’t need to hesitate or think about answering. “She threatens disownment rather often, and did disown Sherlock while he was on drugs.” 

“Well, I’m glad you don’t have to risk that just to carry on with me.” Greg smiled at the troubles of the rich. 

“You will marry me then?” 

“Oh, yes.” Greg responded without thinking about it. 

“Excellent.” Mycroft replied before clinking their glasses together in a toast. 

Greg took another swallow, and leaned in to cuddle with Mycroft. In a few minutes, he’d get up and find some dinner. He’d then drag Mycroft upstairs for some sex, unless he decided he was awake enough to combine the two. With another sip, Greg tried to figure out what food they had that could be eaten off his lover’s pale body. 

Greg woke up the next morning to find peanut butter in his hair and a ring box next to his wallet. A note on the fridge asked that he buy more dipping chocolate, and that Mummy’s gift was there to be drunk. Smiling, Greg resolved to have a drink a day of that ridiculously expensive whiskey until Mycroft was back in his arms. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


	8. Late Nesting

John flipped through a cookbook, wondering what the baby was in the mood for. Unlike Jean-Luc, this one didn’t have much of an appetite. John would cook, and wind up with tea and toast while Mary ate his efforts. She looked at him with sympathy and concern, but no longer tried to talk him into eating or not cooking. He’d explained it was normal, and his body wouldn’t let him actually starve. He didn’t explain that the cooking made him fill a tiny bit useful. 

Tomorrow was Valentines, though, and they’d had dinner reservations for a month. It was a popular restaurant, and John could only hope to be able to do justice to the food. The cookbook offered him _Choucroute garnie_ , which seemed to be a fancy French version of Bangers and Mash, so John decided to go for that. Mary had an apron with Darth Vader’s costume on it, and John put that on before getting out the potatoes, fully aware the apron was an extra layer of protection for the baby. 

He was able to go over plotlines in his head as he cooked, sometimes with the radio on, but otherwise tuning everything out. He didn’t think he was that oblivious, but when he turned from peeling potatoes in the sink he jumped and reached for his gun. He didn’t have a gun, but he would have pulled it even after recognizing David. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” John used his army voice to command an answer, and grabbed the knife he’d gotten out for cutting up the potatoes. 

“Just wanted to see how you were coming alone.” David gave an exaggerated frown. “Are you eating enough for two?” 

John pointed the knife at David, as if he’d forgotten he’d had the cooking utensil in his hand. “Get out.” 

“I came to see Mary, not you.” 

John flicked his eyes to the nearest clock and back to David. It was a little early for Mary, but her schedule was given to changing. It was possible she’d asked him to come by, but hopefully she’d have texted John about that first. 

“What for?” John hated that he was hesitant to kick this bastard out, but he could have been here for a legitimate reason. 

“I’ve brought her a gift.” 

“That’s not necessary.” Mary said, even as she opened the kitchen door behind John. She’d parked in the driveway and come in the side, as she usually did, but must have read David’s lips through the window in the door. 

John casually tucked the knife up behind his forearm and crossed his arms loosely. Mary stepped up beside him but kept her arms at her sides, as if readying for a fight. 

“I didn’t get you a gift, and we’ve never exchanged them before.” 

David waved that aside and smiled at Mary. “I heard you were looking for a nice, safe car. Figured it was for your omega, and since he doesn’t know which side of the road to drive on, I thought you wouldn’t mind a used car.” David smiled, and slowly pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. He tossed it on the table, followed by a key ring with two keys. “Sign the deed, and it’s all yours.” 

Mary’s hand slid around John’s waist into a tense hold. She probably didn’t want to offend a guy she had to work with, and John couldn’t talk to her while he was here. With a sigh, John made a decision. “Thank you, we’ll take it.” 

“Good.” David said to Mary. “Since I drove it over here, I don’t suppose you’d give me a lift home?” 

“Right. Let’s go.” Mary said, though her teeth sounded clenched to John. She grabbed the keys and walked David out the front door, so he wouldn’t have to be near John. John watched through the window as they talked about the car, until Mary got in and adjusted the driver’s seat. David was grinning as he got in the passenger side. 

John went back to his cooking, trying to figure out why he hated David so much. He doubted he’d be able to drive the car, what with it smelling like that alpha. Even if they had it professionally cleaned, they didn’t make a product to bleach it out of John’s brain who had owned the car. Mary might be willing to sell it and use the money to buy something else, but that seemed impractical. 

John had been snuck up on, insulted, propositioned, and generally regarded as subhuman by any number of alphas. It must have been David’s devotion to Mary that was setting of alarms in his mind. It was rare, but not unheard of for an alpha to hook their protective, possessive instincts on another alpha. John wasn’t homophobic about alpha/alpha relationships, but this wasn’t about love; it was about ownership. David wanted to control Mary, even as he would lose respect for her if she didn’t fight his control like an alpha should. 

It was possible John was the one with the crossed wire here; he might be projecting his hate of somebody else onto David. The name, the face flashed into John’s mind in an instant, causing him to pause in mashing the potatoes. He hated David because he treated Mary like Moran had treated Moriarty. He hadn’t known Moriarty long, but Moran’s obsession had far reaching consequences. His first exposure to Moran had been at Mycroft’s insistence, and once again John had gone in with no intel. 

The nightclub wasn’t really a place John would have chosen to go into, even though his scent got him in without waiting in line, and without paying the cover charge. Mycroft’s minions had taken daily blood samples, wanting him as ripe as possible without causing a stampede. With some targets, they’d given him drugs to induce a heat, but they were careful to use a real heat for this one. John figured the target was extra important and smart enough not to be fooled easily. 

In this modern nightclub, this close to his heat, he’d be looking for an alpha friend to share his heat. He’d ordered a gin and tonic, which had been paid for by someone else before it got to him. It wasn’t half finished, and another twenty were lined up on the bar in front of him. The bartender, a handsome beta, only smiled as he plopped down the next one. 

“Make ‘em water and pocket the difference, for your tip.” John offered, earning a real smile from the beta. John didn’t want the waste of all those drinks he’d never drink, and he didn’t want to get drunk until he was with the right target. The next drink the beta put up, he put directly in front of John. A sip showed it was plain water. John offered up a ‘ta’ as he turned to survey the crowd and talk to the few people brave enough to come up to him. 

Mycroft’s people had put him in black trousers and a kaki polo shirt. He wasn’t underdressed, but he wasn’t comfortable. Couples danced and flirted, but a fair number of them were doing that while keeping an eye on him. One couple he recognized, knowing they were his minders for the night. He carefully didn’t react to them, just sipped from his water. A tall alpha had marched right up to him, a man John would later learn was Moran. The alpha had leaned in and sniffed John’s neck. John grabbed what he hoped was an actual gin and tonic, and tossed the lot into Moran’s face. 

“Rude.” John commented, half explaining why he’d doused Moran. 

Glowering, Moran had tapped the device in his ear. “Yeah, boss, the rumors are true.” Moran started grinning as he listened, so John turned away. 

Acting disinterested allowed him to see his minders, and their almost hidden looks of triumph. Whoever this alpha was, he’d taken the bait that was John. Taking another glass, hoping it was alcohol, John gulped it down as Moran continued. 

“Smells ripe, single.” Moran turned the stool, so that John was looking up at him. “Boss wants to meet you.” 

John wavered, not knowing who the boss was, or who the real target here was. “You know where I am, so you can bring him to me.” 

“I could drug you, drag you, or pick you up and carry you to him. Trust me, nobody would see a thing.” 

Clearly bad guys, then, whatever else this guy and his boss were. Slugging back the drink, John set the glass down and got to his feet. Moran only offered his arm, like a gentleman was supposed to. Hoping to keep things polite, John accepted and let Moran escort him to a private lift hidden behind the steps. The lift went down, instead of up, which John wasn’t expecting, since he’d walked in on street level. Without his suppressants, every little emotion John felt created a new scent around him when he was this close to his heat. Moran must have smelled John’s worry, but his interpretation didn’t reflect the real cause. 

“The boss owns the club, and a lot of other stuff. Don’t worry, he’s the richest alpha you’re ever likely to meet.” 

John wanted to protest the assumption that he was only looking for a rich mate, but the lift doors opened. There was a metal door before them, and Moran had to type in a code before they could even step off the lift. The room beyond was very modern, chic, and elegant, which contrasted with the tawdry club they’d just left. A dark haired man was standing in the middle of the room, looking normal until he started to stalk toward John. John had never felt so much like prey, and the grip Moran now had on his arm made him feel like prey staked out to appease the predator. 

“Oh, he does smell sweet, like candy floss soaking up blood.” The boss stated, even before he got close enough to lick John’s omega glands. “Don’t look so worried, sweetheart, the locks and guards are to keep people out. They won’t dare separate us once the mating’s started.” 

This last was said to Moran, who stiffened before releasing John’s arm. The boss had turned his manic eyes on John, no longer caring about Moran. “My name is Jim. What’s yours?” 

“John.” 

Jim had smiled at that, and then shoved his hand down the back of John’s trousers. His squirming finger was allowed to work, as suddenly Moran was behind John, holding him still and keeping a hand over John’s mouth. The finger pulled out, and Jim held it over John’s head so him and Moran could both smell it. 

“He’s clean, but not lubing yet.” Moran said. “Two more hours until he’s in full heat?” 

“Damn the man for setting a meeting at midnight. Though I am flattered by the meeting place he chose.” Jim sighed, too exuberantly to be genuine. “Be a dear, Moran, and finish out the game. We’ll take the jet somewhere, and start making our own little school of psychopaths.” 

“Jim, you know I want more of you, but can’t I join in?” Moran begged as he held John, watching Jim pull a needle out of his suit jacket pocket. 

“Not this time. Stay here, kill Holmes, and we’ll met up after his heat.” There were more words, but John didn’t remember them. The needle had been jabbed into his upper arm and his consciousness stolen from him. He’d been in full heat when he woke up in that hotel room, naked and impaled on Jim’s cock. 

“John?” A surprised voice asked, as Mary flipped on the kitchen light. 

Pulled from his memories, John took a moment to recognize Mary, and longer to realize he’d picked up a knife again. Trying to smile and make the move casual, John put the knife down. 

“I’m making tea.” Mary announced and moved to the kettle. 

John gave a small laugh, realizing she knew his go-to solution to any problem. “Do you need any food?” 

“Ah, no, sorry.” Mary apologized to the kettle, but turned back to blabber at him. “David said he’d ordered his supper, life of a bachelor, so I took him there to pick it up, not that far, on the way. Got there, some mistake, his order hadn’t been put in the system, had to wait while it was cooked. Cold outside, didn’t want to waste gas, so we went in to wait, sat at a table. The staff must have decided we’d changed our minds, brought the food out on plates, he’d ordered enough for two meals, today and tomorrow, so we ate there. Every time I reached for my phone to tell you, he’d say something I’d have to respond to.” 

“Huh.” 

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean? Huh, John?” 

“You’re a smart person, and you’re babbling again. You realize David had planned that, and you’re starting to worry about how he views your relationship.” 

“Huh.” 

“Huh, Mary?” 

“You work hard to hide it, but you’re quite intelligent too.” 

“Well, if I’m so smart, you’ll listen to me. David is obsessed with you, and dangerous. If you send him packing, there’s no telling how he will react.” 

“He’d attack you, thinking you did something to drive us apart.” 

“I don’t suppose I could have a gun?” John asked, half joking. 

“This weekend, we’ll go to the firing range and I’ll make sure you know how to use it.” 

John blinked, forgetting the easy acceptance of guns in America. At least waiting for the weekend would give him a chance to decide how much of his skill with guns he’d show Mary. “Thank you.” 

“I was going to drive the car, so you could have the SUV, but that might make him worse. I think we’ll sell it and shop around a bit more.” 

“I can live with that.” 

“I’m also going to talk to a few people at work, get his behavior on record.” Mary gave him a humorless grin. “It’ll cover our asses if anything happens.” 

John started to reply, but changed his joke into a serious question. “Unless you do want him in our life?” 

“God no!” Mary reached over to take his hand. “We were on assignment as a married beta couple, for just over a month. We lived in each other’s pockets, and one night we had a little too much to drink, got back to the apartment, and had sex. I didn’t regret it, just blamed the drink and moved on, but it’s clear now that David didn’t.” 

“And never will.” 

Mary nodded at that, eyes lost in the past until John gave her a gentle kiss. Moving to the kettle, John got his tea and toast ready, and Mary sat on the couch with him while he ate his supper. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

John was in the office, writing out the first sex scene of his novel, when Mary sent him a text. While it was disappointing to be cancelled on for Valentine’s Day, John didn’t really mind. The fancy place was off the menu, so John could stick with his tea and toast. He did wonder at what came up at her work, but cancelled the reservations. Let some other couple feel lucky to get a coveted last minute booking; John had better second chances in life. 

Yes, this waiting around for the baby to come or Mary to come home was boring, but he had his books. His leg bothered him more now than it ever did on the street, even with the cold weather and sleeping on the street. But, he knew, he couldn’t do right by this child and live a life of excitement. The bond with Mary was soft but there, like a warm cup of tea in the back of his mind. Sherlock had been a lit fuse, and either kind of bond was more than most people got. 

Mary was putting in extra hours now, to get a nest egg going for when she took her paternity leave. She was a spy, not exactly James Bond, but still more exciting than most bondmates’ jobs. They’d eat together and she’d tell him the not-classified bits, changing the names to protect the bosses and so forth. He’d been a spy of sorts, a honey trap, so he could live vicariously, safely through her. 

John enjoyed Mary’s company, but greatly appreciated that she did work. There were days when the in-laws came by, to take them out to supper or to help before the baby came. They dropped in on John while Mary was at work, and drove him places, so he couldn’t complain too much. Once the baby was born, though, John doubted he’d be alone until sometime after the kid started school. 

It was his mornings and afternoons alone that let him work on his books, and he watched the news looking for more ideas of things he could fix in the next one. He wrote until the door was opened, or his hand started to hurt. Today, his hand was starting to cramp, so he tidied up. This included hiding his notebook behind an old-fashioned picture frame and making the office look unused. 

Poking around the kitchen until he decided on beans on toast, John settled on the couch. BBCA was showing a marathon of _Top Gear_ , and John watched to fill in the gaps he’d missed. Several of these he’d seen while Sherlock banged away in the kitchen, experimenting as loudly as possible to get John’s attention. Though John did wonder at how long it took for things to get across the pond in this day and age. Did some law require they be sent to America by boat, perhaps in retaliation for Boston’s destruction of all that tea? 

John woke from some interesting dreams about Sherlock pirating across the seven seas to provide his mate with his favorite tea. His neck was stiff, and with the BBC News muttering at him, it didn’t take John long to figure out he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. Half past four was a bit early to get up, but a trip to the loo had him awake enough. Figuring he’d nap later in the day, John went for tea. Mary was stepping into the kitchen just as he did. 

“Fancy meeting you here.” Mary said with a smile. 

“Some of us have to make our own fun, after being ditched by our dates.” John replied with a smile and soft kiss. 

“Sorry, but this important asshole dropped in yesterday. If I never hear another British accent, it’ll be too soon!” 

Scratching as his mustache, John tried for the accent that was in that movie the other day, Minnesota or something. “Oh yeah? You wanna tell me about it, eh?” 

Mary laughed, covering her mouth as she started to snort. 

Satisfied that his point had been made, John started making tea. As he clicked the kettle on, Mary hugged him from behind to snuffle his neck. 

“I’m so used to your darling voice, I didn’t even realize what I was saying. Now, not that you didn’t do a wonderful far north accent, but feel free to talk normally.” 

“Oh, goody, I was waiting for permission to speak.” Even as he said it, John realized that came off as genuinely pissed off. 

“Sorry, but you know that’s not what I meant. Were you making a joke? No fair taking advantage of the sleep deprived.” A kiss to the scent glad. “I refuse to be responsible for what comes out of my mouth until I’ve had five hours of sleep.” 

Turning around, John slid a hand down to grab Mary’s arse. “And what could I make you say if I kept you from sleeping?” 

Mary returned the arse grab. “I don’t know. As loopy as I am, I might say something embarrassing. I might say that instead of me inside you, or you inside me, maybe we could both be inside each other. I’ve always wanted to seesaw.” 

John thought about it. “Oh, the interlocking J’s!” He’d always wanted to try that too, facing his partner and rocking into her vagina as she rocked into his arse. Dating only beta women to hide his secret kind of made it impossible though, as only beta women didn’t have cocks. 

“Interlocking J’s? You British people and your words.” 

Standing next to the kettle, John was able to reach out and flick it off without moving away, and frown at Mary. 

“Don’t be upset, I love the way you use words. What was it you called the DVR? A thrice damned cunting pillock?” 

“Do you want breakfast, sweetheart?” John offered in his sweetest omega voice. 

“I’ll have some tea and toast, the house special, to store up some energy for what comes next.” Mary let him go and went to get the bread toasted. “If I tell you about the British asshole while we eat, I’ll be able to devote all my concentration to figuring out which body part goes where when we interlock our j’s.” 

“Is he related to the trip to England, where we, uh, meet?” 

“Exactly. We were there looking for some omega rights activist, even though we weren’t read in on what kind of activities were involved. Somebody gets the bright idea to go to this guy for help, but nothing much came of it until yesterday.” Mary carried the toast and butter to the table, while John brought over the tea. 

“He shows up, out of the blue with some new evidence. Says he got it when some alpha rights group attacked Parliament.” 

“I heard about that on the news.” 

“Says it doesn’t mean much to him, but there’s a video with the seized evidence, talking about our terrorist.” 

“Sounds like a good break.” John privately thought it might be a bit too easy of break, but all he knew of British politicians had come from exposure to Mycroft. 

“It was, the techs were going nuts over this footage. It’s just this guy, this caricature of a proper English gentleman. Cool as a cucumber, ice wouldn’t melt, so perfectly polite in every word and gesture so you just know he’s judging everything you do. Makes you feel crazy for asking a question, and then walks around indoors with an umbrella!” 

John controlled his mug of tea, so it didn’t drop and spill, but he couldn’t stop the color from leaving his face. Sherlock did say Mycroft ran the CIA on a freelance basis, so he could be here for many reasons, none of which had to do with John. 

“John, are you okay? Do you need to throw up?” 

“No, nothing like that.” John smiled at her and dug around in his brain for a distraction. “I just wondered if you thought of the interlocking j’s because of the handle on his umbrella or something.” 

“Pervert. Besides, I always heard it called see-sawing, remember?” Mary grinned at his head nod of a response. “I have finished my tea.” 

Steadily, John tipped the rest of his mug down his throat. “Clean up can wait.” 

Hand in hand, they went to their bedroom. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Counterfeit goods manufactures were always looking for the cheapest way to fake the most expensive things. A good chemist could be a big asset, so Sherlock walked in and made himself indispensable. He was able to offer new and excitingly cheap ways to make the latest celebrity cologne that the masses seemed to love. To clear the palette, so to speak, of his nose and genius brain, he used the resources for a little extracurricular research. 

By the time a rival faction destroyed the warehouse in bullets and fire, with surprisingly good intel, Sherlock had moved on. He’d also submitted some research to a not-for-profit that was dear to his hidden heart. _Scent Neutralization and Amplification as a Result of Supplementing Histamine Blockers_ was Victor Siegerson’s first publishing credit, but Sherlock was looking forward to seeing the name next to Dr. Watson’s, someday. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Mycroft’s visit to the states put him in a good mood, Greg could tell that much. A happy Mycroft was a rare thing, one that meant grand meals and kinky sex, interspaced with time spent cuddling on the sofa. Greg was slowly working his way through his Christmas present, the expensive whiskey tasting like pure sin and heaven as it went down. 

Tonight, when Mycroft laid him down and licked him open, Greg was too happy to mention he wasn’t feeling that well. The endorphins from sex seemed to get rid of that lingering exhaustion, so Greg took his medicine gladly. After sex, he was too blissed out to worry about a bit of grumbly tummy or feeling like he wasn’t getting enough sleep. He’d eventually go to his doctor and get a B-12 shot or something; it was fine. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Two weeks after Mycroft’s visit to the CIA, nothing had come of it. Mary was part of a rotating schedule of surveillance teams, though she’d made a point of not being partnered with David. John had taken to nibbling on toast all day long, in an effort to put on the weight he needed to grow a baby, one that hated food. In another life, he’d be joking with Sherlock about the baby already being just like him. Still, he had his routines, which were nicely broken up when Mary would waltz in from work. The in-laws were learning to call before they came over, so that was nice. 

“Johnny?” Mary sing-songed from the kitchen. 

Cursing at her being home about four hours early, John shoved his notebook into its hiding place and went to find her. “Hey babe, didn’t expect you for a few hours.” 

In response, Mary moved into the living room and kissed him. John wrapped his arms around her and kissed back, enjoying the closeness, until she rested her head on his shoulder. 

“We arrested the perp, and I’ll be able to move on to an interesting case.” 

“Lunch while you tell me about it?” John asked, not moving from the embrace. 

“Not hungry for food, hungry for this.” 

Grinning, John stood there and held his Mary. 

“This omega rights activist was funding a nonprofit that studied ways to let omegas live normal lives, suppressants and scent blockers. Stuff that omegas need but it’s illegal for them to have it. Hell, I admire what he was using the money for, but apparently he was blackmailing people to get the money.” 

“Well, nobody was going to volunteer to pay for omega research.” John offered without thinking about it too much. 

Mary pulled back to look at John, and he knew he’d have to tread carefully. 

“I don’t agree with blackmail, I simply, I mean.” A pause while he gathered his thoughts. “I wanted to be a doctor before I presented.” He stopped there, let Mary fill in the gaps, and hug him again when she reached her conclusions. 

“Whatever this guy was doing, it wasn’t very effective.” Mary continued on the mission debriefing, knowing that neither of them were prone to talking about feelings and regrets. “He had these scientific articles written up and posted on a website, but.” 

“But no omega was educated enough to make heads or tails of a scientific article?” John finished the sentence Mary suddenly cut off. “I’m used to it. Can’t even get properly angry over it anymore.” There were many reasons for that, including how his emotional range had been cut in half by Sherlock’s death, but John wasn’t going to tell Mary that either. 

“Hopefully, researchers will build on the studies, but Watson’s part in this is over.” 

“Watson?” John choked a little on the name, trying not to stiffen up and give away his flight or fight response. 

“Yeah, John H. Watson, MD.” 

John took a moment to be grateful that his knees had decided to lock in an upright position, instead of giving out on him. “John and Watson are both common names.” 

“That was part of the problem with tracking him down, and why we had to do so much surveillance. But we got the right one in the end, a member of MI6 on attachment with the CIA. He was mainly a bodyguard, but he used his position to get information about people and then blackmailed them.” 

So relieved he wanted to sag into a puddle on the couch, John reached for a distraction. “Is this the short version of your case that won’t cut into our sex time?” 

“It really is.” Mary said with a small giggle. “That rich bastard I told you about, Holmes and his umbrella? His video led us to the name and the guy, though we’re waiting on Holmes to tell us which is his real name.” 

“What?” John asked, when he really meant ‘how much of this was a put up job by Mycroft and why did he do it’. 

“Oh, right. He has two full-fledged identities, John Watson and Kurt Paulette. Here, I’ve got a picture.” Mary pulled away to dig out her phone, and John paced a little to loosen up his body. 

When she held out the photo, one they’d probably been using when asking people if they’d seen this man, John recognized it. “Ringo.” 

“What?” 

“Sorry, he looks like Ringo.” 

“Who’s Ringo?” Mary looked professional, as if she was about to start interviewing John and taking notes. 

“Ringo Starr, from the Beatles.” 

Mary looked at the photo, squinting a little, and then shrugged it off. “I always liked the Monkees better.” 

John let himself lean against the couch at that, holding the back of his hand to his forehead. “Oh, I have been defiled by one who has no musical taste!” He might be slightly giddy at not having been arrested. 

“Yeah, and if you don’t get off that couch, I’ll defile you there too.” 

Grinning, John flipped open the button on his jeans. Mary joined him on the couch. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

John rubbed at the small of his back as he tidied up. The doctor in him knew he should leave it be, choosing to rest at this late stage of his pregnancy. He could go outside and enjoy some of the June heat while he rested, but for now he cleaned. He felt like he was finally starting to nest in Mary’s home, the nesting behavior that should have taken place in the first few months. 

Another couple of weeks and he’d have his center of gravity back, and be rid of the lower back pain that had bothered him the last two days. Mary had made herself late for work, rubbing at it until John convinced her it didn’t hurt anymore. She’d told him she was bringing in supper from now until the birth, so he wouldn’t have to cook. John didn’t mind, figuring this would give him time to finish the story he was working on now, before the baby arrived to take up all his time. 

It did mean his clean house wasn’t giving his nesting instincts much to work with, since he didn’t have a dirty kitchen to tidy. A final glance around the living room, set to receive Mary and her take-away, and John decided on a cup of tea with caffeine. The kitchen tile was cool under his feet, until it was warm, wet, and slightly sticky. Well, he thought, at least that’s easier to clean up here than on the carpet. The first contraction hit as he realized the mess was his water breaking and he wasn’t getting that tea. Leaning on the counter, he waited for the contraction to end and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. 

“Hey babe. I haven’t ordered yet, so if you don’t want Chinese you’ve got great timing.” 

“If you came home without stopping for food, how long to get here?” 

“Twenty-five minutes. Why?” 

“Cut it down to fifteen, and I’ll meet you at the front door.” A beat for an answer. 

“Oh. Are you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ten minutes.” 

“Carefully, I’m not that far gone.” He commanded, but he wasn’t sure if she’d heard before hanging up. Going upstairs to change into clean clothes, or downstairs to the laundry room and dirty clothes, didn’t sound like a good plan. Instead, John grabbed a large bin liner from the cabinet. Carrying it to the front door and grabbing his wallet, John called his in-laws. 

A sigh as Arthur answered. “Hi.” 

“Hi, Arthur. I think I’m going into labor.” 

“Early, aren’t you?” 

“Couple weeks, probably not a big deal. Could also be false labor, a trial run.” 

“Oh.” 

“Mary’s on her way, and she’ll drive me to hospital.” 

“Okay.” 

“I don’t know how long this will take, so you can come and wait or Mary will call you when it’s done.” 

“Sophie’s cooking supper, so I’ll see what she wants to do.” 

“Okay. Mary’s here, so I need to go.” 

“Bye, John.” 

“Bye.” Grinning, John hung up the phone and opened the door. Arthur wasn’t very talkative, but on the phone words became blood from a turnip. Mary was roaring down the street, but he used her arrival to end the conversation. He was halfway down the driveway when she pulled in, and he got the bin liner laid down before she could get out and try to help him. Mary smoothed down his seatbelt once he was seated, and kissed his cheek before backing out. 

“Take your time getting there, I’m not that far along. Also, the neighbor’s kids are home from school.” 

“I’m careful, just nervous.” 

“Imagine talking to your dad on the phone, that’ll calm things down.” 

“Are they coming?” 

“He’s got to ask before he knows.” 

Mary laughed but drove carefully and slowly until they were out of the residential area. 

When they got to the hospital, John was glad to get in a wheelchair and let Mary deal with the paperwork. He’d planned on figuring out the over-complicated American medical system, but there was always something more interesting to do, like folding socks. Once the kid was here, he’d have to figure it out for the kid’s sake, so he would. Mary had easily handled his prenatal appointments and could do this too. 

John sat and waited, doing the breathing he’d been taught at medical school. Mary had asked if he’d wanted to take a class, and he’d said no, but that he would if she wanted to. They hadn’t talked about it since, so she must not have wanted too, or she hated thinking about John’s other children, the fictional reason he was as old as he was and available. Truth was, John knew the information the class would cover, and he couldn’t imagine sitting through the dumbed down version he’d be subjected to. 

Mary was sympathetic to omega rights, recognized he was intelligent and capable of more than having babies, but he didn’t dare tell her the truth. He blamed his trust issues. During his first prenatal appointment, he’d made up his lies and he was sticking to them. He had four kids, two alphas, two betas. He’d made their birthdays significant events in his life, such as the day he got shot in Afghanistan, or the day he met Sherlock, with only the years altered. Mary had this fake history memorized, so if it wasn’t in his medical records, she could deal as he breathed through another contraction. 

At last he was being wheeled into an omega suite, with a large bed and private bathroom. After the birth, he’d be able to bond with his alpha and baby, imprinting on their scents, without other people getting in the way. Mary and a beta nurse were helping him pull off his clothes and get into the large bed with the obstetrician came in. Dr. Clark must have been in the hospital for her to be here already, and John offered a nod of greeting. She smiled as she got closer, but in his heightened state of awareness, John could smell the worry. 

“What?” He snapped, getting everybody looking at him, and then at the doctor. 

“Everything’s fine, John, I just want to check you over.” Dr. Clark replied in a voice used to calm wild animals. 

“Your scent blocker is rubbing off and I can smell your worry. What’s wrong?” 

Dr. Clark was reasonable enough to accept she’d lost this round. A dangerous look from Mary might have supported John’s logic, but it also made John aware that Mary still had her service weapon on her. Deep breaths, out of sync with his need to breathe through contractions forced John to calm down some. Grabbing Mary’s shooting hand, John stared at Dr. Clark until she answered. 

“You’re a couple weeks early, and I want to make sure it’s just one of those things. It might be because you didn’t gain enough weight, or we were wrong about the date of conception, it could even be your age. Don’t worry about it; just let me check you over.” 

“Right. Okay.” John agreed, but pulled Mary to him as if for a hug. She did hug him where he lay on the bed, but he whispered in her ear. “I’m safe here. Take your gun to the car and lock it up. Hormones are hell.” 

Mary giggled, embarrassed and excited about the baby coming. A quick kiss to his cheek, and she practically ran out of the room. John ignored the medical staff’s questioning looks and gestured for Dr. Clark to get on with it. She did, poking and prodding as efficiently as she could, so the bad news could be delivered before the dangerous alpha got back. She looked up at John at last, hand resting on the curve of his belly. 

“You and the baby are a little underweight, but it’s too late to stop the labor. You should focus on…” 

“Getting through the labor?” John interrupted. “Like I can do anything else? Fuck the platitudes and let’s get this done.” 

Dr. Clark repressed a laugh, and John might have glared at her a little for that. “Your baby might have to use an incubator for a few days, but we’ll take very good care of him.” 

John was fully aware of all the possible complications of an underweight or premature baby, but this wasn’t the time for that debate. This was time for pain, if his body had any say in things. When that contraction subsided, John looked to Dr. Clark again. 

“I had dietary issues before conception, but I’ve been taking those vitamins. Before I forget though, one the records his name’s Sean, like Sean Connery, and not S H A W N.” 

“I’ll make sure.” Dr. Clark said, realizing she’d accidently told him the baby’s primary gender, something they’d wanted to keep secret until he was born. 

“Might still be a girl,” Mary called as she entered the room, her parents behind her. “We agreed, Shawn if a boy and Jeanine for a girl.” 

“Just want the correct spelling on record.” John offered with a smirk, getting a fond eye roll from Mary. 

“Just because we both agree he’s the best Bond is no reason to spell a kids name that way.” 

“Fine, I’ll bet you it’s a boy.” John conceded. “If it’s a girl, you can name the next one Shawn and spell it however you like.” 

“Deal.” Mary said, holding her hand out for a shake. That turned out to be a mistake as the next contraction was shared through their handhold. “Get through this and I’ll do anything you want.” 

Mary whispered at him, but John was too occupied to reply. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 

The sun was coming up when John finally held Sean in his arms. The afterbirth had been almost as exhausting as the delivery, and he’d shit the bed, but the worst part was waiting for the doctor to determine if the baby was healthy. Arthur and Sophie feed him ice chips and wiped his brow while Mary hovered over Sean and the doctor. All the possible problems Sean could have ran in a loop through John’s brain, and even his exhaustion couldn’t make them stop. 

The doctor at last pronounced Sean healthy, and handed him to Mary, who brought him to John. Flipping up the blue blanket the baby was wrapped in, John watched as Sean blinked up at him. Heart in his throat, John began to sob, messy crying that the others put down to the emotional upheaval of giving birth. It’s not like he could tell them that Sean had Sherlock’s eyes. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


	9. Surprising Mycroft

After putting Sean down for his afternoon nap, John went downstairs. With the baby monitor on the kitchen counter, John set about making supper. He’d learned the art of casserole making from his mother-in-law, so he got out the ingredients for one. He could set a reminder on his phone to have him baking it in time for Mary to come home, his few minutes without the baby on his hip put to good use. More than food, he was offering Mary peace of mind. 

Today was her first day back at work, her six-week paternity leave all used up. She hadn’t wanted to leave, no doubt making herself late with her dithering, as she tried to think of a valid reason to stay home. John had been encouraging, managing not to push her out the door. It wasn’t that John didn’t enjoy her company; it was simply that he needed a little bit of personal space. 

Between his in-laws and random neighbors stopping by to see Sean, and Mary using the same bathroom, he felt he hadn’t had a moment to himself since before the birth. He couldn’t even walk to the park or nearest pub to cool his temper, let alone take out his frustrations in his bodice ripper stories. He’d taken the excuse of feeding Sean to run from social engagements that were starting to bore him, and describing the people he was avoiding to Sean, complete with words he never wanted Sean to say. 

John was starting to think there was something fundamentally wrong with him, as an omega and a human. Omegas were supposed to love large families and being around people. Omegas were supposed to flaunt the possessive grip of their alphas and toy with their jealousy when feeling underappreciated. Humans as a group were social creatures, and John wasn’t. He appreciated Mary’s family, but didn’t feel like he belonged. He enjoyed a bit of rough or possessive sex, and occasionally he could be dominated in bed. The tight grip on his hip as he picked out teas in the store wore on his nerves. 

He hoped Mary would relax as she got used to their new family, but he held out no such hopes for the rest of the alphas of the world. Omegas and betas cooed over Sean, as they would any baby. The alphas sized him up, figuring out how many fertile years he had left, and determining if Mary was keeping him. Those alphas, well, they needed to know exactly what John could do with a medical enema kit. 

Casserole ready to bake, John covered it with cling film and put it in the fridge. Mary normally got home around 6:15, the dish needed to bake for 45 minutes, and the oven needed 5 minutes to pre-heat. Figuring out the time he needed to set the reminder for starting it cooking was easier than working the timer feature on his mobile, which held his full attention until the front door was kicked in. Mary’s guns were upstairs in the locked gun safe, so John picked up the two largest knives they owned. 

“John!” David hadn’t put in an appearance since he’d given them the car, but John reacted to what he knew of the man. 

Moving to the door that led outside, John unlocked it and waited for David to come in the kitchen. David would see him, and John would get him out of the house before doing what he had to. David was obsessed with Mary, and John was little more than a sex toy to him. A toy that could be disposed of, should it get in David’s way, but Sean was different. Even deranged, John hoped, David would know not to hurt Mary’s child. The kitchen door slammed open, and David raised a finger to point at John as he stomped across the kitchen toward him. 

“What the fuck did you tell Mary?” 

“She decided for herself that she didn’t want a crazy bastard like you.” John snarled back, stopping David in his tracks almost three feet from John. 

It wasn’t enough to get through his obsession, but it calmed him. A calm before the storm, John knew, and readied himself to run, easing open the door. David cheated, pulling a gun from his service holster. Running from projectiles didn’t usually work, but sometime the unexpected did, and John knew David meant to kill him. With Sean safe, this made this a fight for John’s life, and he was good at those. 

Lunging forward, John brought his left arm up and sliced into the alpha’s stomach. David didn’t seem to feel it, too busy being surprised at his moving target. John stopped and turned, bringing his right arm up to stab. David managed to turn around and moved to block John’s stab. John’s left hand broke David’s right wrist, and took the gun from his numb fingers. Furious, David kicked out wildly, catching John in the hip and knocking him to the ground. 

John checked the safety as he fell and kept his head from hitting the ground. Aiming, he waited for the perfect shot, let David lean over him and put both hands into one fist. As David swung his arms out, John exhaled and shot him in the head. Instant death meant his momentum was no longer controlled and physics took him to the floor on John’s right side. John couldn’t look at him, having eyes only for Mary. She must have come through the door while David blocked John’s view of it, and picked up a frying pan to hit David over the head with. She dropped the pan as blood bloomed on her cheerful yellow blouse. 

Getting to his feet, John stepped forward and met Mary as she sank down. He eased her down gently, and ripped her blouse off. David’s bent-over head had lined up just above Mary’s kind heart. A glance at her back showed no exit wound, and John knew that passing through David had slowed down the bullet, had caused it to fragment. Wadding up her shirt, he packed it into the wound and laid her down. His own shirt was ripped off to put under his hand as he put pressure on the wound. Under his hand, the heartbeat he’d recently memorized was getting softer. 

“No, Mary, please.” John pleaded, knowing it was useless. If he’d had a hospital next door, he might have saved her, but now she’d die before she could possible get there. 

“John. Sean.” The two words cost her, but not as much as the third. “Love.” 

“Mary, Sean’s safe, he loves you. I love you.” John said, knowing it was the first time he’d said it, only now realizing he meant it. 

“John.” She muttered, though it could have been Sean. 

John couldn’t tell, so he could only chant back an answer from both of them. “We love you, we love you.” 

Her lips stopped moving, and the chest he was putting pressure on stopped pushing against his hand. With the light out of her eyes, John’s chant fell apart. With his voice gone, the noise began in his head. Mycroft had been right to use him as bait, since killing alphas was all he was good for. Nameless ones for Queen and country, and then the ones he knew, like David, and the ones he loved, Mary and Sherlock. For all his pleas to live, how many people would still be alive if he had died in the sand? 

Fortunately, there was a gun around here, and a late bullet was better than no bullet. A final kiss to her lips, a loud sob, and John looked around him. The gun had landed under David’s leg, but his blood pool hadn’t reached that far yet. Leaning, John picked up the gun and checked to see if it had bullets in it; he didn’t want to waste his remaining time with an empty gun. Satisfied that only the chambered round had been fired, John returned the clip and chambered another round. In the silence of aiming, he realized the noise wasn’t all in his head. 

The gunshot or fighting had woken Sean. John held the gun and listened. Everybody loved that baby, he was just the womb it had come from. 

David’s blood pool had stopped spreading before John finally stood and turned off the baby monitor. He could still hear Sean, crying and wondering why his parents weren’t responding like they had before. John picked up his phone and called his in-laws. 

Arthur answered with the same sigh he always did, even if he was happy to receive the call, and he sounded happy now. “Hey, John. What can we do for you?” 

“Would you and Sophie come get Sean for the night?” 

“What’s happened?” Arthur asked, confused but not suspicious. 

“Sean is fine, I’ll explain when you get here, but could you please come right now?” John hung up before Arthur could start to ask, and dialed 999 before Arthur tried to call back. With a sigh, John hung up and dialed 911. 

“911, please state the nature of your emergency.” 

“There’s been a fatal shooting.” John automatically gave the address, and answered the questions he was asked. Most of the operator’s questions were asked to keep him on the line, but John didn’t have anywhere to go, so he answered. Lights called him to the open door, and he saw the cops pull into his driveway. “The cops are here now. I’m going to go talk to them.” 

It wasn’t until the cops found their way into the kitchen and turned their guns on him that John realized he was still holding the gun. He laid it on the counter and sat down in a kitchen chair. One guarded him while the other cleared the house and called in reinforcements. John heard Arthur shouting at the cops guarding the entrance, and he told them to let his in-laws in. Only then did he begin to explain what had happened since David kicked in the door. 

He was calm and thorough, but an omega, so he spent the night in hospital. The cops told him there would be an inquest of some sort, but he probably wouldn’t be called. They had his statement, and nobody wanted to get a nursing omega any more upset than he already was. This was one of the perks of being a womb with feelings, so John took it. He was taken to the station and questioned the next day, until he was released to Arthur just before dinner. It was a quiet meal, both his in-laws having red eyes from crying. It wasn’t until he was feeding Sean that John cried. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

The funeral was a special kind of hell. John could feel the eyes on him and almost feel what thoughts lurked behind each of those sets of eyes. Many of the betas and the few other omegas were concerned that he was going to collapse any second as the destruction of his bond caught up to him. The alphas were looking for signs of fertility or an emotional heat. He wanted to shout at them that it was his mate’s funeral, for fuck’s sake, but to them, his mate was dead so he was back on the market. 

He wondered if he’d told them he’d outlived two alphas if they’d still be so interested. Considering most people thought he’d been widowed before meeting Sherlock, he could probably get away with saying he’d outlived three, maybe four alphas. They’d never believe him about the alphas he’d actively killed, so best not to even count those. They’d probably be watching him for signs of heat regardless. What if he told them he was wanted on three continents for treason or terrorism? 

Mary’s parents had been kind and supportive through his eighteen months here. Sophie had been distant since Mary had been killed, but John didn’t think she’d sell him off. Through it all, John knew it would be worse if he didn’t have Sean. Mary had been kind, down-to-earth, happy, and intelligent. Not as brilliant as Sherlock and completely opposite of him in most other ways, so John had loved her in a different way. He could have been happy with her, if only Sherlock hadn’t, well, been Sherlock. 

It always came back to Sherlock, even when the baby started to cry. Easing his way to the staircase, John went to offer food and comfort. Sean was almost two months old, but John wasn’t sure if the recent death had left Sean with only one parent. John didn’t tell Mary’s parents of his suspicions, just as he had never told Mary. Instead he checked the nappy, found it empty and took off his shirts to feed Sean without getting anything on his suit. Normally, John would talk to Sean, but today he found he didn’t have any words. After Sean was finished eating, John played with him in silence. The soft knock on the door was a call back to reality, and John had pulled his vest on before the door was opened. 

“John, can I come in?” Arthur poked his head in to ask. 

“Please.” John said. 

Arthur settled on the other side of the bed where he could play with Sean and still talk quietly to John. “How you holding up?” 

“Fine, sir.” John said, but thought better of it considering this was Mary’s father. “As fine as can be expected, anyway.” 

“Knowing she was happy with you does help, but it still hurts like hell.” 

John couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he picked up a toy from the floor for Sean. 

“Sophie is taking it harder than I expected, though.” They’d all expected this to crush Sophie and it must have been bad if Arthur said anything. 

“And I thought the British were supposed to be masters of the understatement.” 

“Yeah. It doesn’t help that she’s decided Sean isn’t Mary’s.” 

John looked up at Arthur, knowing his expression was giving him away. 

“Two blondes producing a dark haired child isn’t impossible, but it’s the eyes that really make us wonder.” 

“Children can take six to nine months to settle on an eye color. Some might not even settle completely until their teens.” Medically true and sound reasoning, available in baby books and not just medical school. Unfortunately, Arthur wasn’t buying it. 

“It’s not that his eyes are darkening, John, as you know. It’s that they change color depending on the light.” Arthur waved the shadow of his hand over Sean’s face, and his eyes looked green. Removing his hand allowed Sean’s eyes to return to matching the blue of the quilt they’d been before. “I’ve never even seen that, so I’m pretty sure it’s not from my side of the family.” 

“My alpha, before Mary, had glasz eyes with central heterochromia. His eyes changed colors depending on the lighting conditions.” John licked his lips waiting for the questions. 

“I thought Mary found you in your heat, already a widow?” 

“Yeah, I was. My first heat, since being widowed. When I realized my heats weren’t coming back, I left my alpha’s pack; became homeless.” Not the full story, not by a long shot, but only so much you could spring on a man during his daughter’s wake. “I got sick, dreamed my alpha had found me, thought I’d spent my heat with him. Woke up and Mary was taking care of me, telling me how wonderful my heat had been.” 

“Did Mary smell like your other alpha?” 

“Not at all. I thought about it and decided My,” John cleared his throat to back away from saying that full name. “Mike, my alpha’s older brother, had found me while I was sick. His smell kick started my heat, which allowed Mary to find me.” 

“But that’s not what you think now, when you see Sean’s eyes?” Arthur asked, calm and patient. 

“I think I spent my heat with Mike and he left me there. He might have gone for help or just planned on leaving me there, but Mary got me before he did, spent part of my heat with me. I wasn’t in a position to really question what she said.” 

“Sophie loves Sean, and she appreciates how happy Mary was while you were together.” 

“But she wants me gone.” John finished and Arthur looked away in embarrassment. 

“I think she’ll change her mind when she gets over her grief.” 

“She knows I can’t leave Sean behind?” 

“Yes. I don’t want either of you to go, but I think it would be easier on her. She’ll be able to grieve her daughter, without thinking that she’d been taken in by an…”

“Conniving, slutty, gold-digging omega. We get that more often than you’d think.” John sighed after completing Arthur’s sentence. “I’ll call Mike and be out of your hair in a couple days.” 

“John, I am sorry about this and I’d like to keep in touch, if it isn’t too painful for you.” Arthur’s words were rushed in a way the man rarely allowed himself to be; he much preferred thinking through every syllable before speaking. 

“No problem. I’ll send pictures to this house until you get it sold. Hopefully, by then, it won’t hurt Sophie if it shows up at your place.” 

“You are far kinder than we deserve. Mary was our only child and we’ll never have grandkids now, which is part of what hurts so much when we see Sean. But we still love him and know you’ll raise him right.” Arthur sniffed and got to his feet. “We’ll have a proper goodbye later.” With that, he fled the room, probably to the bathroom to wash his face. 

John watched Sean burble happily at the stuffed moose in his hand as he mentally prepared himself for what he had to do. He chose the landline instead of his mobile because it would give Mycroft a physical location to start from if anything else happened before Mycroft got here. Dialing the international codes and Mycroft’s personal number seemed to take forever, until it began to ring. John figured Mycroft would dismiss the unknown number and he’d be talking to a voice message, but on the fourth ring it was picked up. 

“Import Export Consultation, how may we assist you?” The voice was very British after all this time in America, calm, professional, and familiar enough to bring moisture to John’s eyes. 

“Anthea? It’s John Mor… Hol… John.” 

“Please hold for Mr. Holmes.” There was a trace of excitement in Anthea’s voice and her words were hurried. 

It was enough that John felt welcomed, even if he didn’t know what name to introduce himself under anymore. 

“John?” 

“Hi, Mycroft. Sorry I didn’t call before, but I’ve been slightly busy.” 

“No matter; you are safe and that is what matters.” 

“Well, another matter has come up that I need to talk to you about. I need a place to stay, if I could presume on you.” 

“Nonsense, John. You are family and I would have come for you sooner if I had any idea where to start looking. I am very interested in learning how you have hidden from me so well.” 

“Long story, but if your trace is working you should know I’m in Langley, Virginia.” 

“I will admit that the headquarters of the CIA was not my first choice of places you were likely to hide.” 

“It’s the government’s fault for treating omega’s like possessions. One of the CIA agents claimed we bonded and brought me over on her passport.” John was protesting out of habit, and there wasn’t any real heat to his words. “I’ll need your help and connections to get back to England.” 

“I will send a private plane for you and either Anthea or I will be there to facilitate your return.” Mycroft stated and John knew it would be done. “What is the name of this agent, so that I might ask them some questions?” 

“Dead, so she’s out of even your reach.” 

“Ah.” Mycroft said softly as understanding hit. “Her family does not want you to bond with another?” 

John shook his head at Mycroft, knowing he couldn’t see it. Most people would have asked if John’s heats had returned, but Mycroft had gone right for the result of those heats. This could be because he was the one who spent the heat with John and fathered Sean, or just him being a know-it-all Holmes. “No, they want me to leave.” 

“We have your location and Anthea is making plans. I look forward to discussing things with you within a day.” 

“Alright. I’d better start packing.” 

“Farewell, John.” 

“Ta, Mycroft.” 

True to his word, John started packing. Strangely enough, he was done about the same time that all the alphas had left. He only took four changes of clothes for himself, a photo album of his life in America, and his writings hidden in the lining of his suitcase. The other suitcases and diaper bag were full of Sean’s toys, books, clothes, diapers, and formula. Twelve hours was a long time to be locked in a plane with a screaming baby, even if it was your kid. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Mycroft, Greg knew, didn’t wake hardworking people in the middle of the night to play jokes on them. Except that’s what he seemed to be doing. Mycroft looked as formal as was possible in a bathrobe, silk pajamas, and slippers, hair cleaned of product but still tamed. In his comfy flannel robe and old boxers Greg looked like what he was: a grouchy man who would rather be asleep. Because of this, Greg reached over and tousled Mycroft’s hair. 

Mycroft automatically reached to straighten his hair, but looked at his phone instead of Greg. 

Something clicked on in Greg’s sleepy brain, and he was ready to interpret Mycroftese. “What are you nervous about, My?” 

“One needs only be nervous when they cannot control or adapt to the situation.” 

“And you trust me to adapt to an unknown situation in my boxers?” Greg thought about it. “Must be physically safe but requires a level of emotion you’re not comfortable with.” 

“There may be punching, but permanent damage to you is unlikely.” 

Greg frowned, but at long last the back door opened. Greg tried for a distracting joke. “Punching makes it sound like you’ve found John.” 

The minion entering the back door moved aside, and Greg saw a familiar grin. 

“Actually,” John said, “he didn’t find me. I called and gave him my address.” 

Greg surged forward to hug his friend, laughing. He squeezed him all the tighter when he remembered he couldn’t tell him Sherlock was alive. 

“Cheers Greg, but let me breathe, yeah?” 

A slow release and Greg let go, only to turn and hug Mycroft; he understood why he wanted emotional support for this. “Could have told me.” 

“I was counting on your genuine emotional reaction to show John how welcome he is.” 

Greg rolled his eyes, but turned to look at John and wrapped his left arm around My’s shoulders. “My means he’s glad you’re back.” 

“So,” John gestured at them. “I take it you’re Mycroft’s live-in emotional interpreter now?” 

“All Holmes need one.” Greg grinned back, knowing he had John’s approval. 

“You are not upset by this, John?” Mycroft asked, somehow encompassing their relationship with his tone of voice. 

“I won’t be if you won’t be, about my surprise, that is.” John shrugged and pointed down the hall. “Anthea is bringing it now.” 

Highly confused, Greg turned to look. Anthea was coming in the other door, carrying a large, gift-wrapped box. She was holding it close to her and treating it carefully, as if fragile and valuable. She put the package on a decorative table that was probably worth more than Greg’s car. Opening the top showed that it had already been opened, but was wrapped to look like it hadn’t been. Reaching inside, she pulled out a something plastic with fabric spilling out of it, and it took Greg a moment to recognize it. He made a sound of surprise, and caught the flick of Mycroft’s eyes toward him. 

Mycroft probably wouldn’t recognize the car seat until the baby was out from under the blankets. 

John stepped around them to flip back the blankets, unstrap the infant, and pull the baby to him. A few steps put him were Greg and Mycroft could get a good look at the baby. “Surprise guys, you’re Godfathers.” 

There was a moment of wonder, and then Greg was reaching out. John shifted the baby over and made sure Greg was holding the baby correctly. 

“Oh, John, there’s a rascal if ever I’ve seen one.” Greg said, all his training and experience telling him this kid was going to be as interesting as Sherlock. Greg blinked back tears and reached for his words. “Boy or girl?” 

“Alpha on record?” Mycroft asked at the exact same time. 

“Always going for the hard questions.” John muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Boy. Sean Gregory Morstan for now, but Mary Morstan’s not the birth alpha. Sean was her pick for a name, though I went with s e a n instead of s h a w n. Gregory was my choice,” and here John shot Greg a smile, in case he missed the significance of the name. “We were going for names that wouldn’t draw too much attention. The genetic alpha thing is a very long story, and I’d appreciate a DNA test.” John flushed, and looked away. “I can leave again if you don’t like the results.” 

“My, you tell him right this minute or I will tell him everything.” Greg heard the protective growl in his voice, but wasn’t worried about it scaring Mycroft off. John was hurting and ready to run again; and he’d take Sean with him. That couldn’t be allowed, even if Greg had to fight his alpha. 

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “He clearly needs to know.” 

“It’d be nice to know why my baby is in danger, yeah.” John agreed, and immediately shrugged off the stares of everyone in the room. “Anthea hesitated when she saw him in America, and had a wrapped car seat delivered to Heathrow. After installing the car seat, she rewrapped the box and you saw how she separated us to bring him inside. You might argue that she just wanted to surprise you the way I did her, but that wouldn’t explain the two extra guards waiting to escort us inside.” 

“Well-reasoned, John.” Mycroft said. “I apologize for repeatedly underestimating you.” 

Greg figured the shocked look on his face matched John’s, but he elbowed Mycroft in the side to make him talk more. 

“I withheld that information from you, thinking it would make a difficult situation worse. I believed you would become mired in what could have been, or been afraid to move on when you were biologically able. With his death, Moran established a ransom on any of your children, regardless of the alpha.” 

“Clearly he thought Sherlock would only have kids with me, but he wanted to be able to torture me even if Sherlock died with him.” John cut his eyes to Mycroft. “And you didn’t feel the need to warn me.” 

“You were not cycling, so I did not deem it relevant. Besides, the added stress of this knowledge could have prevented you from healing.” 

“It could have prevent Sean. Not that I regret him, but he has to stay safe.” 

“Who do you think the alpha is?” Mycroft asked again, but in a much more polite tone. 

John glanced between them and blushed again. 

Greg realized John hadn’t been about to leave because of the security system; he was afraid of being kicked out when the alpha was known. Why? 

“Mycroft.” Greg said, watching the way John’s shoulders twitched. “John thinks you’re the alpha.” 

“I most certainly am not.” Mycroft said, his indignation much clearer than his reasons for it. 

“I was sick, confused, but I wasn’t having nasal hallucinations. I may have seen what I wanted to see, but I smelled him, and you’re the closest thing on this planet.” 

Mycroft blanched, but not for the reasons John thought. Greg opened his mouth to demand that Mycroft tell him, but Mycroft spoke first. 

“John, no matter the results of the test, you will be welcomed here, both of you. If you will excuse us, there is something I must speak with Gregory about.” 

John flushed, clearly thinking he might have harmed their relationship. Greg wanted to reassure him otherwise, but John would only look at Sean as he took him back. 

“We’ll be up in my room.” He muttered. “Goodnight.” 

Greg followed Mycroft into the nearest room, and folded his arms across his chest. “Tell him Sherlock’s alive; end his misery.” 

“Until Sherlock dies again?” 

Greg sagged at those words, knowing John couldn’t live through that twice. 

“We need the test to find out if Sherlock is the father, and we will go from there.” 

Thinking about how hard this would be to keep from John, Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft and held on. “I’ll be there to help you.” 

Returning the hug, Mycroft whispered back. “I’ll need you.” 

Greg took a moment to swallow around the lump in his throat, overwhelmed and completely in love. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Being up all night hadn’t helped Greg get a good start on the day, and he was running late when he stumbled into the kitchen. He’d put the recently emptied bottle of Talisker on display in a china cabinet, and on mornings like this he thought longingly of what it had held. Whiskey wouldn’t get him moving, but all he really wanted to do was crawl back in bed anyway. Though, it wasn’t Mycroft making tea, and his reasons for being up all night were back in Greg’s head. 

John turned to smile at him, though the smile looked faked. 

“Morning.” Greg offered as he moved to the coffee pot, half empty and still warm. He wasn’t awake enough for this conversation, but he needed to set John’s mind at ease. As he prepped his travel mug, Greg talked to it, loud enough for John to hear. “Mycroft is human, don’t let him fool you. If the baby is his, I don’t care. We’ll work it out.” 

A smile at John’s dumbfounded expression, and Greg finally left for work. Unlike Sherlock, he wouldn’t barge in the doors of Scotland Yard and demand a good murder, but he could really use the distraction. Mycroft had some scheduled conference, out of country, so if he didn’t have a case, there would be days of not talking about important things with John. If all else failed, Greg figured he could ask John about why he was so run down lately. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Molly didn't think too much about the text, having other things on her mind, but she did notice the confused look on Mrs. Hudson's face when she answered the door. 

"Molly dear, I wasn't expecting you." 

"What? I got a text from your number, said to drop by after work." 

"I can explain." A calm voice intruded, so both women turned to stare at Anthea at the foot of the stairs. Molly blushed down at her. "May we go inside?" 

The polite request got Mrs. Hudson moving out of the doorway and into her flat. The rest of the building was unoccupied, as Mycroft still paid for Sherlock's flat. With the shell of the bombed out building across the street, Baker street was becoming a lonely place. 

"Tea?" Mrs. Hudson asked, always the polite hostess. 

"No, thank you." Anthea responded first. "My employer has asked that you join him for dinner, and we do not have much time. A situation has arisen that he would like to discuss with you, but secretly. To that end I have provided you both with disguises." 

The messenger bag over her shoulder couldn't have held much but both Mrs. Hudson and Molly looked at it before looking at each other. 

"The best disguises aren't that dramatic." Anthea offered, as she adjusted the flap of the messenger bag. Now it had the logo of a famous omega surrogate agency. "Mrs. Hudson will carry this, as the beta chaperoned." 

Molly knew she'd be the omega being brought in for inspection and blushed to her toes. "Oh, it doesn't take much to make me a faceless omega." Molly offered with a laugh she didn't feel. 

Anthea paused to look directly in Molly's eyes. "I can only hope that all my adversaries are that foolish, and blind." 

Unsure of how much deeper she could flush, Molly fled to the bathroom to brush her hair in a different way. After it was loose and hanging in her face, a look that would get dead things in her hair at work, she'd managed to calm down a great deal. Back in the living room, Mrs. Hudson had changed into a smart pant suit, that when combined with the bag, made her look very official. Mrs. Hudson led the way to the black car outside, and Molly found herself sitting between Mrs. Hudson and Anthea. 

With each brush against the competent alpha, Molly blushed more. She considered it would only help her disguise, as surrogate omegas were prized for their service but pitied for their inability to bond with an alpha. Molly tried not to think about how quickly she could find herself in this role for real, if it could be demonstrated that she couldn't bond with anyone, not that she was just crap at picking potential bondmates. 

The elegant house they eventually pulled up to was intimidating, in the way of understated wealth. Anthea lead the way, though she was as involved with her phone as she'd been the whole ride over. She opened the door one handed, clearly expected and used to having free run of her boss's house. Anthea let Mrs. Hudson and Molly go in first, and before she could get in the house, a baby started crying. Molly and Mrs. Hudson turned to the door most likely to hide the baby, but stood still until a voice emerged from behind that door. 

"Hush, you greedy thing." 

Mrs. Hudson could move pretty quickly, when properly motivated, and she was through the sitting room door before Molly could move. Mrs. Hudson stopped a few feet in the doorway, so Molly had to dart around her to see John, and the startled look on his face. He stood, without moving the child from his nipple, and carefully hugged Mrs. Hudson with one hand. When Mrs. Hudson reluctantly let go, Molly leaned in for a hug and chaste kiss. 

"John, dear," Mrs. Hudson began in an angry whisper, "I sincerely hope you have a good explanation for this." Shaking her head, she noticed the tea service set out and began to pour. "Are you allowed caffeine when breastfeeding?" 

"One cup a day, and this is it, at least according to the nanny." 

"You hired a nanny?" Molly heard herself ask. John seemed like he'd be much more of the hands on type of parent. 

"Mycroft did, though I think she's more of a nanny and bodyguard for me, while I take care of this one." Looking around, John leaned toward Molly to stage whisper. "From her appearance, I think she might have been Sherlock and Mycroft's nanny, and would explain their interest in skeletons." 

Molly started to giggle, but it turned into a full out laugh. John returned to his rocking chair, still feeding, so Molly found a chair of her own. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like that, but tried to keep that thought from showing on her face. Instead she asked, as Mrs. Hudson handed out the tea. "So, are you going to tell us?" 

"His name's Sean Gregory." John said, with a proud smile. Slowly, he began talking, about living on the street until finding a home with an unexpected heat. Sean was asleep and in his bassinet before John mentioned the death threat against his children. Molly knew she wasn't the only one that reacted with shock; Mrs. Hudson was simply quieter about it. 

"Don't worry too much; he's got the best security in the world. Honestly, the queen's more likely to have problems. Mycroft's security is so tight; I'm surprised he let you come." 

"Mr. Holmes is in Copenhagen for that environmental policy summit." Anthea offered from the doorway, eyes still on her phone. "There is a chance he might not even know of this meeting." 

Molly had jerked at her words, so absorbed in John's story that she hadn't even notice Anthea was back. 

"It is also Nanny's night off," Anthea continued. "So John might sneak a second cup of tea after supper. Which, I have come to say, is served." 

"Anthea, don't let me forget you are a wonderful person." John called, even as he picked Sean out of his bassinet. Handing the sleeping baby to Mrs. Hudson, John winked at Molly. “I've been trying to put a baby in her arms for years now." 

Molly giggled, and followed them to the dining room. They had a great meal together, and Molly talked herself out of sharing her troubles tonight. Parenthood seemed to suit John well, but he'd always needed someone to take care of. He was almost happy with the new love of his child, which was not a substitute for the dead alpha he loved. Only after calming her cat and getting into bed, would it occur to Molly that Sean had Sherlock's eyes. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


	10. A Discovery

Gas warfare was against most rules of civilized warfare, but Sherlock was a chemist who’d never signed that document. Still, he was careful, casing out the place for a couple of weeks before deciding it would be the best way to take out the whole nest at once. The hardest part after that, had been finding a working gas mask in this peaceful part of the world. 

Pot might be legal in Amsterdam, but methamphetamines weren’t, and this meth house was three stories of boarded up windows for meth cooking. Sherlock went for a quick acting gas, one that would flood the insides of the building without interacting with the meth. It would also disperse quickly and harmlessly with a little bit of air, such as when the cops entered the building. He just needed the gas mask to keep him safe in the poisonous house while he copied all the computer files they were so careful to keep in the house. 

The bomb had been slid in through a jimmied basement window, hidden from view by the foil they’d put up to keep the meth cooking stable. Going in through the same window let him work his way up, checking for pulses as he stripped them of cash, phones, and any data storage devices they might have. The hard-drive he most wanted was on the third floor, and was still being downloaded to his jump drive when the front door opened unexpectedly. 

“Alfons? Jacob? Where is the guard?” A voice called, not yet suspicious. 

Sherlock had taken the time to move the bodies out of direct line of sight from the entrances, but the lack of a guard should have roused the suspicions of anyone used to how things were done here. Leaving the computer to its work, Sherlock pulled out a knife. A gun was quicker and easier to use, but might be enough of a spark to set this place on fire. Knife in hand, Sherlock eased down to the ground floor. 

The newcomer was coming out of the kitchen with a frown on his face when Sherlock peered around the last set of stairs. As quick as he could, Sherlock went down those stairs, grabbed the man, and shoved him to the wall. The knife at his throat kept him from fighting too much. 

“I am Cobus, I am one of you!” 

“Not exactly.” Sherlock replied, and Cobus finally seemed to understand his gang wasn’t in charge here anymore. He stiffened and began to sweat, so Sherlock asked. “Where were you?” 

“England, trying to find out what happened to our contacts.” 

That explained far more to Sherlock than Cobus thought it did, though it would be good to see what conclusions Cobus had come to. “What did you find out?” 

“They are gone, dead or in jail.” 

Glad of that, Sherlock considered if there was any other useful information to get out of this worm. Wouldn’t take much for him to start babbling, Sherlock thought, just before the man started babbling. 

“Don’t kill me and I can get you a million pounds. Not give, you’d have to do the job, but it’s an easy job…” 

Sherlock cut him off with a pointed pressure on the knife blade. “If it’s such an easy job why aren’t you a million pounds richer?” 

“Alfons was the one who knew how to contact the broker. I came back with the proof we’d need to get the broker interested in talking to us.” 

“Show me; slowly.” 

Cobus understood, and slowly reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a folded paper, and held it out. Sherlock used the hand not on the knife to grab a corner and flick it open. It was taken from a distance, and had been enlarged in the computer to bring the man and his baby into focus, but Sherlock recognized the inside of Mycroft’s townhouse. The only thing Sherlock didn’t recognize was the baby John was holding so tenderly. 

“You’ll need me to tell you where the house is. Then we can kidnap the baby, take it to the broker, and split the money. I’m not even going to expect half, I know I only brought you this deal, how about forty to sixty?” 

Sherlock didn’t listen; he barely heard the man. John had a new baby, one he was very protective of, one he was living in Mycroft’s house with. Despite all Mycroft had said about not wanting John, about being with Lestrade, biology had won out. John was still in the back of his mind, a constant ache where Mycroft’s bond blocker was dulling their bond, but no longer his. 

Lost in his thoughts, this dull heartache, Sherlock almost let Cobus go when the man turned in his arms and tried to fight free. Reflexes and a very convincing knife had Cobus pressed against the wall quickly, this time facing Sherlock. 

“You’re dead.” Cobus managed to say, recognizing him from where his gas mask had got knocked askew. Pulling the gas mask off, Sherlock smiled. 

“Yes, I’m Sherlock Holmes. Now tell me who to contact to get that reward.” 

“Whole world knows that omega had you by the short and curlies, but getting the reward for your brother’s kids with him is especially cold revenge. Bravo, Sherlock, I never knew you had it in you.” 

“You’ve seen the obvious and drawn the wrong conclusion, Cobus. I’m killing off everyone who has heard of the reward for that omega’s kids, even if they’re not my kids but my nibblets.” 

Cobus’ ugly face scrunched up in confusion, wondering if his English wasn’t as good as he thought. 

“The gender neutral term for a sibling’s children is nibblet.” Sherlock instructed, before slicing out the man’s heart. 

Putting the gas mask back on, Sherlock wiped the blade’s handle and put the fingerprints of a nearby body on it. Riffling through Cobus’ pockets had produced a memory card, so Sherlock took that as well as his thumbdrive from upstairs. There would be questions, but the cops would be happy to call it an internal dispute that ended in a knifing just before the fumes from the meth overwhelmed them. 

Getting all his equipment and returning to his hotel, Sherlock checked the memory card first. The pictures of Mycroft’s house he sent to his brother without a word of explanation. Mycroft would fix that hole in his security and John would be safe. All other evidence of Sherlock’s time in Amsterdam would be a pile of ashes in the morning, and he would go back to being a high functioning sociopath. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Anthea had given Molly a business card after that reunion with John, and had written a number on the back. Molly felt awkward about calling that number, half afraid it was a top secret, emergency contact number, and half afraid it was her personal number. Either way, she knew she’d blurt out something embarrassing over the phone, if not incriminating. 

She needed to call Anthea and be more like John. John was good at hiding things, even though he seemed so open with his emotions. Even Mrs. Hudson hadn’t gotten the name of Sean’s alpha from John. He knew Molly was Miss Kitty, even though he had no proof, and yet he’d never given that away either. Molly had contacts with omega rights groups, which was why she’d known she could get his books published. Things that would close the case on at least three acts of omega rights activism floated around in Molly’s head, things that Anthea would love to know. Praying that she didn’t blurt any of these things out, Molly dialed the number on the back of Anthea’s business card. 

“Hello, Dr. Hooper.” 

“Oh, hi! Is this your personal line? I’m sorry, I probably should have called the number on the front, but I thought maybe the one you took the trouble to handwrite would be the one you preferred I used.” 

“You are correct.” 

“I am?” 

“Yes, this is my personal line and I did want you to use it. How may I help you?” 

Molly paused, but decided she was imagining that as a flirtatious line. “Right to business, as I’m sure you’re busy and all. I would like to see John soon, before our regularly scheduled Sunday lunch.” 

“He is available for tea tomorrow. Will that suffice?” 

“That’d be great, thank you so. I just want to talk to him in private, you know, about omega things.” Molly clamped down on her impulse to talk before she embarrassed herself even more. 

“Are you quite alright, Dr. Hooper?” Anthea asked, real concern tinting her voice. 

“I’m fine. How are you?” Molly replied conversationally, before realizing Anthea was asking because she’d said she wanted to talk to John about omega things, health things. A moment of panic and a distraction filtered up from the recesses of her brain. “Do I have to wear a disguise since this is outside of our regular meetings?” 

“No, I’ll simply take you in the back way.” 

“You’re good, always on top.” Molly’s blush realized what she was saying before her brain did. “On top of things, not on top in general, though maybe you are.” Molly paused. “You could just call me Molly, I don’t mind.” 

“Only if you’re sure,” Anthea replied with a smile in her voice. “You are an intelligent woman who worked hard to get that title and deserve respect for that.” 

“I think you can respect me and call me Molly.” 

“That I can, as I do respect you, Molly.” 

“Oh, thank you.” Molly replied after a brief pause while she smiled at Anthea’s words. 

“It is the shame of my gender that you aren’t used to such true words and compliments.” Molly had no idea how to respond to that, and Anthea seemed to sense that. “I’ll pick you up at the staff entrance to St. Bart’s tomorrow. Have a good evening, Molly.” 

“You too.” Molly stuttered out before hanging up her phone. Sitting on her sofa, Molly wondered just how much professional flirting Anthea did. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Molly was blushing as Anthea escorted her into the house. John was curious, both about Molly’s sudden desire for tea and her interactions with Anthea, but didn’t want to ask in front of Anthea. Naturally, Anthea decided to join them for a cup of tea, when she never had before. She also looked very pleased as she watched Molly play with Sean, so John simply refilled their cups without much talk. After Anthea had excused herself, phone back between her and the world, Molly looked up. 

“Are we being monitored here?” 

“No,” John replied quickly, hiding his surprise at the question. “Greg told me that Mycroft was worried about being recorded at Mummy’s, so he makes it a matter of principle not to bug his own home. He also checks daily to see if other people have tried to bug him.” 

Molly gave a decisive nod, and pulled a letter out of her jean pocket. John took it, opened it, and read. 

_Dear little Molly,_

_Interesting things come in ordinary packaging sometimes, don’t they? You seem like the perfect omega, but that’s all packaging for the rebel you are. Much like the $10,000 pounds you’ll be giving me in a plain, brown envelope, once a month until I say otherwise. If you object, I can easily raise the amount, or I can tell everyone that Kitty Riley was not Dr. John Watson. The CIA wouldn’t have arrested him if they didn’t think he did it, but I can trace the money Kitty Riley makes to the Omega Institute, of which you are a founding member, in collusion with Dr. Watson._

_Drop off instructions will follow._

_Signed, a friend._

“A friend?” John asked the air, as he fought back his need to punch somebody in the face. 

“What do you want him to sign? An enemy?” 

Molly’s words brought out a pause where they looked at each other, before they started to giggle. It eased the tension, and John let himself have a biscuit as he worked out a plan. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Drugs for guns seemed to be an even trade, yet even here Moriarty had found a way to make money. Brokering the deals, being the middleman, had bored him soon enough, so he set up a layer of middlemen in his organization. Posing as one of these disposable functionaries, Sherlock’s disguise was granted a tour of the desert camp of the opium growers. They blindfolded Marcus Stewart, African Chemist with pale skin hidden under traditional dessert garb. Marcus hesitated a little about the blindfolding, Sherlock playing his part perfectly, and folded his fake glasses before the blindfold went on. 

When the blindfold came off, and Sherlock was satisfied that he was in camp, he put his glasses back on. Opening the earpieces set off the GPS tracker, so Mycroft’s minions would be able to find this top secret base. When Sherlock left the area, the air strike would take care of this strand of the web, and if he didn’t come out then a ground assault would extract him. Having gotten what he came for, the name of a middleman in Ciaro, Karl March, Sherlock was angling to get Marcus sent back to the city, when a truck caught his eye. 

Allowing nervousness to show, Sherlock turned to his host, but waited until he was done speaking to ask. “Where are those men going?” 

“For a night on the town, as the Americans say. A prisoner is to be executed tonight, and it might confuse their loyalties to witness it.” 

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock frowned; he only had two ideas why an execution would bother hardened drug dealers and insurgents. “Who could be such a troublesome prisoner?” 

“A woman, naturally. Female alpha, who looks into my men and sees their weaknesses.” Nashah spoke mostly to himself, before really looking at Sherlock. “Come, see what I deal with.” 

Having figured out that Mycroft would have to worry about the men driving into town, a four hour ride, Sherlock was ready to leave. Still, as John had often told him, pissing off the killers was a tactic best reserved for special circumstances, so Sherlock spoke as he followed Nashah into the caves. “Female alphas are rare, especially in this part of the world.” 

“They are so because we stamp out such aberrations as soon as they present. It is the Americans that have created this nightmare, and left her for us to deal with.” 

Sherlock made noises he expected were encouraging, and kept a map of their route in his head. At last they stopped before a heavy wooden door with bars in it, blocking a side cave. At Nashah’s nod, Sherlock stepped up to look. The prisoner was very female, though her alpha traits were obvious in her attitude. 

Naked, filthy, and with her chained arms bolted to the rough cave wall, she forced her uncomfortable pose to look comfortable, as if she would have curled against the floor and wall even if a bed of feathers had been available. She looked relaxed, and completely unafraid of her surroundings, unless you realized that she was only pretending to be asleep, and her eyes wanted to open and see who was looking in at her. Clever than, clever enough to know her attitude would annoy her captors and worked to do that in the little time she had left. 

Sherlock was impressed, but didn’t show it. Instead he stepped back and shook his head. “Shame, having such beauty wasted on an aberration.” 

“Married the British Ambassador, pretending to be a beta, and then got his beta daughter pregnant. She fled before it could be proven, but once proven Ambassador Adler put a pretty price on her head.” Nashah started walking away as he spoke, so he didn’t see Sherlock’s look at the name. “Had every bounty hunter in the world looking for her.” 

“You would not waste time on bounty hunting, so how did you get her, if I may ask?” 

“The Ambassador asked us to get a confession out of her, so he could cut the beta daughter out of his will.” 

“The men going into town, they were sent in to interrogate her, and she confused them.” Very clever, this woman, Sherlock privately thought. She’d read these men like he did, and found secrets to exploit. 

“Her lies and treachery, appealed to their basic instincts. They forgot that she was an insult and needed to be put down. Her death will bring those men back to the path of righteousness.” 

Sherlock followed Nashah out into the sunlight, and did not point out that if he had to send his men away so they wouldn’t try and rescue Mrs. Adler, then clearly she’d won. “Some of this sounds familiar, as if I heard of the bounty. What name was it under?” 

“This devil has many names, but the bounty was for Irene Adler.” 

Sherlock hummed, but tucked the name away where he could look for it in his mind palace later. “It takes a strong man to behead a person. Will you do it yourself?” 

Sherlock put a little awe in his voice, and was rewarded when his host puffed up and started to brag. He talked of the beheadings he had watched and done, particularly in his youth. Now he trained those under him, and did not get to do the honors anymore. By the time he was being put back into the black hood that kept this location secret, Sherlock knew quite a bit about beheadings. Putting that knowledge to use gave him some practical experience, and then he was able to dump his driver and bodyguard in a handy dune, and drive the jeep back. 

Mycroft’s minions would hopefully change to a ground assault, since he was still near the camp. The ground assault would have been necessary to empty out the caves anyway, so he was saving them the ammo for an air raid. If they were on the ball, observing like they should be, they should arrive before the execution took place. If they were late, Sherlock would be very glad a truck full of men was in town. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Mycroft’s minions were either late or not watching Sherlock as closely as they had when he was safe in London. Either way, he was swinging a scimitar away from Irene’s neck and toward her nearest captor. In the momentary confusion, while the captor realized he was dead, Sherlock cut the bindings on Irene’s arms. She responded quickly, moving to take the weapons off the dead man. They could hold their own for a while, but would eventually be overwhelmed. 

The start of gunfire didn’t kick up puffs of sand near their feet, and then the insurgents were turning away, fighting a threat from outside camp. Having worked so hard to save her, Sherlock dragged Irene behind a boulder, and pulled off his disguise. It wasn’t his best disguise, a mere change of clothes and a terrible accent, but he didn’t trust Mycroft’s minion to see through it when shooting. Irene watched this with an amused expression on her face. 

“You don’t look like you were paid to rescue me, so why did you?” 

Choosing between answering a question and running into a gunfight with a sword shouldn’t have been a difficult decision, yet Sherlock hesitated. “You were kind to an omega once, when you didn’t have to be. Originally, that was enough to keep me from tracking you down and killing you, for the other things you did to him. But now you owe me, more than you owe Moriarty and Moran, two very dead men.” 

“You’re John’s alpha then.” Irene said, mostly to herself, but focused on Sherlock to speak. “Even in the middle of his heat, John would look around with far too much awareness. I should have known he’d remember me, but I’m happy he can think kindly of me. What do you want in exchange?” 

“The ransom on John’s children. Who pays out?” 

“I’m not sure, but I’ll give you a list of every one of Moriarty’s contacts that I’m aware of.” 

Something like hope burst into Sherlock’s chest, and he looked down to make sure he hadn’t been shot. The night was still around them, and Sherlock looked up, into the night camouflage of British Special Forces. Sherlock grinned, as Irene raised her hands in surrender. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Being underestimated had its advantages, but never had Molly relied on them more. She’d taken the money out of her savings, and the cashier had only asked if she needed an escort. He hadn’t asked where she got the money or what she needed so much cash for, because he thought someone else was making her decisions. Molly had declined politely, putting the money into her oldest purse. The teller didn’t notice that she put a flat, thin tracking device into one of the stacks of bills. 

When she got to the designated betting parlor, the bouncer held the door open for her. When she bets on a horserace that doesn’t exist, the bookie is so busy smiling at her that he doesn’t even look at the money. He doesn’t notice the first bug, nor the second that she sticks to the underside of the betting window. The fake betting slip he gives her includes his phone number under the charming phrase ‘for a good knotting, call’. 

Back in the street, Molly pulls out her phone to text John, in the code he’d decided on. He’d told her the evidence they collected with the bugs wouldn’t be admissible in court, but their texts would, so they had to be careful. She’d asked what the point of gathering evidence was, and John had smiled while he said they were after a different kind of judge. Molly only hoped this was all over soon, for many reasons, not the least of which was her inability to pay so much each month. 

_Something stinks in there._

Two days later, when she finally got a return text from John, Molly had decided those other reasons were more important than her finances. 

_Molly, have tracked down the source of that smell. Diaper rolled behind changing table._

John knew who was blackmailing her, and he’d found a location. Adlibbing her reply, Molly sent a text and hoped John would understand. 

_I want to help you clean the nursery._

_Are you sure? It’s nasty work._

_I’m sure._ There was a long pause, during which Molly was sure John would reject her help. 

_OK. Will talk later._

A lot scared, Molly also found she was a little bit proud of herself. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


	11. Whose Omega are you now?

For movie night with the girls, John had to promise to be on his best behavior. Naturally, Mycroft, Greg, and John, took this as his promise that he wouldn’t escape from the highly trained guards put in place for his safety. It helped that movie night was at Baker Street and Sean could be used for a hostage, one nobody would allow to be harmed. 

A tradesman disguise got him from Mycroft’s to Mrs. Hudson’s, both places having undergone a thorough sweep that afternoon. John had pumped out about a weeks’ worth of breast milk in preparation for this night to go badly, but Greg said most new mothers went through the same thing before leaving their baby alone for the first time. Any nervousness John had was laughed off to the same convenient excuse. Nobody remembered enough about him to realize he was excited for what was coming, not nervous. If it wasn’t deadly with a great chance of going wrong, he’d have kept Sean with him in the little sling Molly had bought. 

Anthea saw John to Mrs. Hudson’s and reluctantly left without getting to flirt too much with Molly. She was disappointed, but Molly was nervous and refused to be talked out of helping. Mrs. Hudson thawed her bug detector, and found two left by Mycroft. John and Molly set up the dummy versions of themselves and started the extended version of _The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King_. If they weren’t back by the time that was over; they’d need the rescue. 

Under the pretense of getting someone in to fix up the basement flat, there was a collection of tools in that damp place, including a ladder. The drop cloth, rolled up in a corner, was actually three outfits in black, complete with face masks, though they wore their personal coats over the black. The ladder got them out of the window at street level and into the waiting cab. Without a word, the mature cab driver with a crooked nose took them to a section of flats. Parking, he kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek before getting out. She took the driver’s seat and they pulled their coats off and their masks on before driving away. About halfway there, Molly turned to John. 

“It sounds easy when you say it.” 

John recognized it as a plea for reassurance, and smiled at her under his woolen mask. “It’s ridiculously simple to break into a house with no one home, especially when you’ve hung out with Sherlock as much as I have.” 

“Where’d you get the stuff?” Mrs. Hudson asked. 

“Facebook.” Just to keep from having to remember who knew what, John had told Mrs. Hudson everything, once he’d figured out he’d need her help with transportation. He hadn’t known she’d had a friend who could lend them a cab, but he’d hoped she could at least rent a car. He’d expected to change out the plates, but this was much better. 

“What do you mean, Facebook?” Molly asked, her confusion and annoyance confirmed even through her mask. 

“Before I met either Holmes, I was Facebook friends with people in the military. I sent out a polite request and they told me where to find what I was looking for.” John shrugged, wishing it had been that easy. 

He’d had to set up a fake account, find the storefront his mercenary acquaintances had used years ago, and track it to the source. Hating technology, John had wished Sean was old enough to do it, as it seemed every kid in London knew more about computers than John. The easiest part had been the electronic transfer of twenty thousand pounds to Molly’s account this afternoon; he wasn’t about to let her pay for this trouble. He’d done it this afternoon so it would be in Molly’s account before she noticed and tried to decline it. Even if she poured it into the OI, John knew it’d be put to good use. 

“The hardest things to find were the magnesium pencils. Not much used since World War II, but perfect for this sort of thing. Magnesium burns really hot, but it’s safe and stable until you mix it with a catalyst. The pencils have the magnesium and catalyst, so all you have to do is break it and go. Guaranteed to destroy any papers or proof a blackmailer might have lying about.” 

Mrs. Hudson parked, and there was a moment of silence. From here, their destination was only visible as an alley between new money townhouses, lacking in the stately grace of Mycroft’s neighborhood. Still, it looked as it had during John’s internet searching and planning, so that was a good sign. 

“Last chance to back out, and nobody will think worse of you for it.” John offered the cab at large, though he had no idea what he’d do if Mrs. Hudson took him up on the offer. 

Mrs. Hudson only tisked, while Molly leveled a look at him. John held his hands up in surrender, before opening his door and climbing out. Down the alley, and John boosted Molly over the fence. The circuit box for the alarm had to be lock picked open, but it was simple to override the alarm once it was. A bump key got them into what John had hoped was the office, and he was glad he’d been right about that. 

Their target, Magnussen, had an extensive home in the country, Appledore. He generated his own press though, and it was easy enough to track that he hadn’t been there since before Molly received the letters. First, they’d burgle the townhouse, making it look like a simple robbery. If the proof wasn’t there, then John would plan an assault on Appledore. There was something the military and poets agreed on, that the best laid plans went wrong. 

Magnussen was supposed to be out all night, at a fancy dress party at some lord’s house, not walking in less than a minute after his burglars had. John found Molly’s hand and held it, as they waited behind the fancy, floor length curtains bracketing the patio doors. Magnussen seemed to be thinking hard about something, distractedly flicking through the papers on his desk. John and Molly were both beginning to breathe normally again, though still quietly, when there was a knock on the office door. 

“Come in.” Magnussen called, trying for pleasant despite the smirk on his face. 

A guard opened the door, letting in a tall woman in silver stilettoes, a green coat, and a large hat that obscured most of her face. 

“Welcome. You worked hard to convince me to give you this meeting, so use it wisely.” Magnussen said, gesturing to the chair and nodding to the guard. She gracefully sat on the edge of one of the visitor’s chairs, and John could only see a wave of blonde hair falling out from under the hat. The guard left, closing the door behind him. “Your name, miss?” 

“Mrs. Body.” 

“A very appropriate name, my lovely, but business first.” Magnussen leered as he replied. 

“Of course. I have evidence of some terrible misdeeds. The man is too well connected to go to prison, but he will pay to keep this out of the media.” 

“In my experience, most bad men don’t care about their reputations that much.” 

“His business depends on focusing the public’s awareness on his enemies. I don’t think he’ll do well when that power is taken from him.” 

“Well, I’ll determine that, after you show me yours.” Magnussen said with an obvious leer. 

“He agreed to pay out for the assassination of certain children.” Mrs. Body’s throaty voice took on the quality of a woman who’d smoked for forty years, and the scent of alpha in the room kicked up a notch. 

Both Molly and John had used Molly’s newest formula, which kept everyday pheromones from leaking out with their sweat, but they could still smell the anger of the alpha woman. 

“Is that all?” Magnussen frowned. “That’s basic capitalism, as long as he didn’t order the hit. What else?” 

“He’s an expert at blackmail.” The woman said, making a gesture with her right hand. 

John could only see a bit of blonde hair spilled on the green of the back of her hat and coat, but he knew without seeing it that she had just pulled a gun on Magnussen. The flick of her right hand had been the distraction she needed for her left to pull the gun out of hiding, and then she was shifting that to her right hand. She’d bought her way in here with a plan to blackmail a man for certain crimes; Magnussen’s crimes. 

“Those kids you’re so willing to pay for the deaths of? They belong to my omega.” 

Magnussen knew who he was dealing with, and tried to throw himself out of the way while reaching for the alarm button on his desk. He wasn’t quick enough on either count. 

The shot seemed to echo through the small room, and beside him Molly had stopped breathing. Both doctors were reasonably sure Magnussen was dead, as there was a neat little hole in the center of his forehead. The woman was the first to move, darting around the desk. She pulled out a stethoscope and had it in her ears before moving the painting out of the way. As she tackled the safe, John pulled out his gun and cocked the hammer. He stepped out from behind the curtain, and when Molly recovered enough to move to him, he spoke to her in a low voice. 

“Get the hard drives.” 

Molly jerked forward to obey, and John watched the woman. When she pulled the stethoscope out of her ears and opened the safe, she started digging around for whatever evidence the blackmailer had against her. She froze when the barrel of John’s gun rested against the back of her head. John spoke softly, but in full command mode. 

“Turn around, slowly.” 

She whirled around, without getting up from her knees, and looked up. John only glanced at her wide green eyes before making sure she saw his gun. 

"Stand up." 

She did, gracefully on her high heels, towering over John. Speaking to Molly, John kept his eyes on the stranger. "Got the hardrives?" 

"The one, but it'll be easier to take the laptop than get it out." Molly muttered. 

"Fine." John returned his full focus on the woman, heavily made up to look as if she had sharp cheekbones and full lips, under eyes so green they had to be colored contacts. "Do you know of any other place he kept his blackmail material?" 

"I destroyed all of Magnussen’s proof." She replied, voice breathless but not with fear. 

"Move away from the safe." John commanded, sliding toward the safe even as his gun directed the woman to leave. She tossed a confused glance toward the safe, still worried about her evidence, but chose to let John deal with it. He was surprised by her faith, as she moved toward the patio doors and looked outside. He’d worry about her later, John decided, before he pulled the magnesium pencil from his coat pocket. Breaking it, he dropped it in the safe and closed it. 

Making for the outside, John broke another magnesium pencil and tossed it behind him, just as the guards started pounding on the door. Shouts from outside, directed at Molly and the woman indicated they were coming from that direction as well. John ran to the fence, shoving up on Molly’s bum as she attempted to climb it. The woman had the laptop, which she threw over the brick fence. The flash of fire from the second magnesium pencil was enough to distract the guards, as they dove for the ground at the unexpected noise. 

Without words, the woman took the crossed hands John was offering and stepped into them, leaving her heeled shoes on the ground. Her long legs got her to the top of the fence and straddling it, so she could reach down for John. He took the offer, knowing his short stature wasn’t helpful in this situation. His stomach was on the fence when a guard grabbed at his leg, so John kicked out with the other one. There was a cry and the hands let go, so John flung himself over the fence and landed in a heap on the other side. 

Very happy that he hadn’t broken his neck, John tried not to glare at the graceful way the woman dropped down beside him. Grabbing her arm, John saw that Molly had the laptop and hard drive with her, so he started running. Both women kept up easily, but when they got to the dark cab waiting on the corner, John made sure the woman was between him and Molly. 

"Take us to Baker Street, 221, the basement apartment." John commanded, and Mrs. Hudson obeyed with only a minimal of tutting. 

Keeping his gun trained on the woman, John took a moment to regain his breath. It wasn’t until he realized that his gun was the only thing he held that John remembered his cane, and then couldn’t remember where he’d last seen it. It might yet turn up at a crime scene, as there was a dead body at Magnussen’s townhouse, but he’d deal with that when it happened. For tonight, he had to figure out this alpha’s story, and if he could trust her to go her own way. 

He decided to wait until they had got out of the cab and Mrs. Hudson had let them into 221 C before he spoke to the woman. He hoped Molly and Mrs. Hudson believed he was coming up with a plan, instead of simply playing this by ear. He didn’t want to admit it, but the adrenaline felt fantastic running through his system. His was alert, thrumming with energy, and more keyed up then he could remember since, well, since Sherlock. 

Mrs. Hudson drove calmly, only occasionally darting confused glances in the rear view mirror. Molly bit at her lower lip and stared at the harddrive, already blaming herself for whatever was to come. John would have offered words of comfort, if he had any. For now, he just hid behind the large flare of the woman's hat, and wished she would stop staring at him. He was trying to think about what to do with her, if he could blackmail her into thinking he'd turn her in for murder if she turned them in for anything. He'd kill her to save Molly, as she was a murderer and not really trustworthy, but that wasn't his first choice. He needed to figure out if she would accept the bargain, and if she'd stick to it. 

Instead he was worrying about his cane, covered in his fingerprints, left at a murder. He’d wore gloves tonight, but hadn’t made an effort to wipe down his cane before they went in. His leg wasn't hurting, but his stomach was. He felt like he could throw up, but that wasn't from the violence, the adrenaline, or even the sight of a dead body. In the silent cab, the grumbling of his stomach became audible, and the woman smiled. John rolled his eyes; this was not cute. 

Thinking through this intensity was hard, but he was trying. Maybe he could bond with the alpha, since she’d lost her omega to Magnussen, and that would ensure her silence. The thought startled him, but then he was thinking about alpha cock, and sinking into the pleasure of a heat, and pulling up to the curb of Baker Street was all that kept him from flirting at the woman beside him. 

Mrs. Hudson led the way, unlocking doors until they were in the unused basement flat. John felt obligated to provide some sort of instructions, but his stomach started gurgling. Shaking his head, he turned to Mrs. Hudson. 

“You, cabbie, take your hack away from here, we’ll settle up later.” 

Mrs. Hudson gave him an amused glance, since the woman’s back was to them all, and left. 

“You,” John pointed at Molly to avoid confusion, and noticed his right hand was shaking. He was going to have Molly take the harddrives out to destroy them, but his stomach had other ideas. Wondering if he was having an allergic reaction to the adrenaline or something, John changed what he was going to say. He handed Molly the gun. “Watch her, I’ll be right back.” 

Molly held the gun with both hands, as John hurried to the bathroom before he did something embarrassing in front of the woman he needed to intimidate. Molly was staring at John, not the woman, looking as if she had something to say. John couldn’t wait, so he didn’t. 

Molly watched as the strange woman reached under her large hat to wipe sweat off her face. As her adrenaline fell, Molly was starting to get chilled, so she didn’t understand why John and the woman were sweating. John was also giving off strange smells, sweet smells, but he hadn’t had a heat since Sean was conceived, so it couldn’t be that. Molly wanted to ask John, as diagnosing the living was his specialty, but with him running to the bathroom like that she didn’t have the chance. 

“Molly.” The woman said, turning from the window at last. 

“How did you know my name?” Molly asked, gun shaking in her hand. 

“I’m going to tell you that, but I don’t want you to shoot me. John didn’t put the safety on when he gave you the gun.” 

Trembling, Molly pointed the gun toward the fireplace, hoping she could get it back up in time, if the woman tried anything. 

“Good, Molly. Now watch.” The woman said, and slowly she pulled off her floppy hat, and the wig underneath it. Without the mass of honey blonde hair, it was much easier to see Sherlock’s face. 

Molly’s legs gave out, and she sat on the floor with a thump. Sherlock moved forward, as if to help her, and Molly pointed the gun at him. “You’re dead.” 

“Not yet, but I will be if you pull that trigger.” 

“What happened?” 

“It’s a long story, but I want to know how you think John will take it.” 

“John?” Eyes flickering to the door John had left through, Molly considered how John had grieved. “I can see why you didn’t want him to have a gun in his hand when you told him.” 

Sherlock laughed, his voice cracking a little. 

“What happened, to your voice?” 

“My voice doesn’t seem very feminine, even when I try a falsetto. I used an injection to change the rate of my vocal cord vibrations, and I hope it wears off soon.” 

“Did it affect your nose?” 

“Possibly, as it numbs nerves in the face and throat.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed a little as he asked. “Why?” 

Molly found she was biting her lip even before he asked. “I’m an omega, so my nose isn’t as good as an alpha’s, but John smells sweet to me. Like milky tea with honey, and something else.” 

“Oh, fuck.” Sherlock’s voice went through three registers on that profanity, and Molly’s blush kicked on like a furnace in January. She was glad she was still wearing the face mask, though it was starting to itch, so she pulled it off. He started pacing, stretching his skirt to the limit of the fabric with each step. 

“He’d going into heat from my proximity, and I can’t even smell it. I was going to convince you to let me leave, without telling him. I think Magnussen was the last threat, but I wanted to make sure before I came back. Wanted to get his forgiveness, even if that was all I got. Call Mycroft, get him over here, I can’t leave John alone if he’s going into heat, not now that you’ve told me.” 

“Greg’s with Mycroft.” Molly sputtered out, one of the few things she knew enough to talk about. 

“What?” Sherlock froze, focused entirely on Molly. 

“Greg and Mycroft.” Molly stuttered out. “John’s alone, grieving widower, for you. And Mary, maybe.” 

“Mary?” 

“She’d dead too. Or, well, like you were, but she’s really dead, I think.” 

“John’s available?” 

At Sherlock’s shocked repetition of the main theme of what she was saying, Molly understood. He expected John to be snapped up by a long line of alphas, not believing John would honestly grieve like he had over Sherlock’s death. Molly could fix this, so she looked Sherlock in the eyes and spoke clearly. 

“He might not be if you let him go through this heat alone, since the cops or Mycroft’s men might come looking for us.” 

Sherlock’s still body jerked, and then he was moving again. He made it to the door before he stopped, turning back to where John was last seen. “I should leave, but I can’t, you go. Go to my flat, get the first aid kit from under the sink. If you can’t find it, there was one under the kitchen and bathroom sinks, and one hidden in each room, so go find one or get one from Mrs. Hudson.” 

The command had Molly up and moving, running up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was in the entryway, having pulled out a chair so she could wait for other commands. She watched Molly run by, and considering the hurrying steps didn’t bother to ask. The kit was still under the kitchen sink, so Molly grabbed it and ran back down. Sherlock had stripped to his skirt, though he no longer wore pantyhose underneath it. Scars and bruises littered his back and chest, but he was pulling the kit out of her hands before she got a good look. He found a scalpel and a pack of sterile sutures ready to apply, which he handed to Molly. 

“You need to remove this thing and sew it back up. Quickly, before John goes into his heat.” He sat on the couch with his back to her, and Molly sank down behind him, not quite sure what she was agreeing to, even as she snapped on the gloves. 

“What comes out?” 

His hands cupped his neck and held out a section of skin. Looking closer, Molly realized there was something under the skin. “It’s something Mycroft gave me to block out the bond with John. I need it out so he’ll believe it’s me.” 

Molly knew she didn’t have any painkillers, knew her hands weren’t used to living flesh, but she also knew she could do this. The scalpel sliced cleanly through Sherlock’s skin, and he pushed it out. While he held the thin metal tube, Molly pulled open the suture kit and quickly stitched Sherlock back up. It was messy and far bloodier than a corpse, but it was done. She reached for the kit, planning on getting the gauze and ointments, but Sherlock stood. With a violent movement, he threw the device on the ground. It broke apart and John emerged from the bathroom at the noise. 

“What’s going on?” He asked, trying to hold his pants closed over a noticeable erection. 

Molly understood how he felt, even if she’d never had a penis; a heat was demanding, especially when it was a bad time for it. 

“Molly,” Sherlock growled, voice too high to do it justice, his eyes locked on John. “Leave before you go into a sympathetic heat and I try to claim you both.” 

It didn’t sound like that bad of an idea actually, being with Sherlock and John this way. On the heels of this thought it occurred to Molly that she wasn’t cold anymore. With a gasp, Molly turned and fled. As much as she wanted their kind of love and devotion, she knew she wouldn’t find it that way. The door slammed behind her, and Molly fled to Mrs. Hudson. Hopefully, some distance between her and their hormones would keep the sympathetic heat from fully forming. Mrs. Hudson ushered her directly into the shower, and asked for explanations while Molly washed the pheromones off her skin. 

“Sherlock?” John asked, not seeing Molly flee. 

Shaking his head, John tried to convince himself he was hallucinating again. After all, he’d seen Sherlock before his last heat, and that had been Mary. This woman was simply enough of an alpha to kick-start his heats, and his brain was seeing Sherlock because it wanted to. God knew John’s brain was messed up enough to only see what he wanted to see. And he could feel Sherlock again, as he had on that day. Maybe it was just being back to Baker Street, since he’d holed up across the road for that heat, and was now home for this one. 

“John, please don’t hate me.” 

John held up a hand. “I don’t know what I’m saying or who I’m saying it to. Last time this happened I wound up with a baby, so if you don’t want one I suggest you leave now.” 

“What happened last time?” The alpha asked, moving closer. 

She looked like Sherlock, or he, or whatever was really there, bringing a wave of alpha hormones with him, her, it. “If you promise not to turn in the others from tonight, I’ll bond with you.” John said, thinking it was a very reasonable idea to come out of his useless brain. 

“No, I won’t tell anybody what happened tonight.” The alpha said, confused. 

“Good, I’ll hold you to that. Make sure you bite the wrists, and not just the neck.” The alpha was standing so close now that John could feel its heat, and his every sense said it was Sherlock. Since his brain was the only thing denying that it was Sherlock, and his heat was about to take his brain offline, John decided to let it. It would make bonding with another easier, as it had last time. “Don’t be offended if I call you Sherlock.” 

They both moved before more words could be wasted, Sherlock shoving John against the doorframe behind him. John’s practice with Mary got the skirt off quickly, and the alpha wasn’t wearing anything under it. Sherlock wouldn’t have cared about giving Molly a free show, which argued that it wasn’t Sherlock who had taken everything else off but left a covering over his naughty bits. But then again, naked under easily removable cloth was very efficient before a heat, which could have been Sherlock. John removed his dark jeans and pants while the alpha pulled at his jumper. 

Sherlock had to pull back so he could get the black clothes off of his confused John, which was hateful, but worth it when he had John naked. Since the kiss was broken, Sherlock sucked and kissed his way down John’s neck and chest, eventually reaching his nipples. Sucking at the right one produced an unexpected substance that it took Sherlock a long moment to identify as breast milk. John was breastfeeding Mary’s child, but this Mary person was dead, so he had to reclaim John as his. 

“Mine.” The growl sounded very much like Sherlock, if not as deep as John knew he could get. 

As the alpha carried him to the couch, John replied the only way he could. “Sherlock’s.” 

The alpha responded by covering John’s body with its own, and working long fingers into John’s arsehole. Glad that the alpha didn’t mind if John used Sherlock’s name, John let the name out when long fingers found his prostate quickly. Each rub of that gland produced the same uttered name, until the hand was gone. 

“Say it.” The alpha growled, needing to hear his name, needing to make sure John knew who he belonged to, now and forever. 

“Sherlock!” John almost screamed, begging at the top of his lungs. 

With a feral grin, Sherlock slid in, one glorious slide leaving him balls deep in his John. The name became his chant, said with each movement of his hips, the staccato John a percussive counterpoint to John’s longer howls of Sherlock. When Sherlock became a two word chant, Sherlock fisted John’s cock between their stomachs. Pleasure made John stop speaking, made him twist and tighten around Sherlock’s cock, his orgasm kicking off Sherlock’s knot. Another thrust to get the knot into John, and Sherlock was coming, biting down on John’s neck as biology demanded. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

With her hair up in a towel and her body in one of Mrs. Hudson’s robes, Molly joined the older woman on the couch. They sat and sipped tea, turning off the DVD so they could watch the news. Magnussen’s death was awaiting them, even though the cops and reporters had nothing to say about it. It was only an unconfirmed report from an unknown source that was positive Magnussen was dead. Molly wasn’t going to confirm it unless that body was one her slab next time she went to work. 

Mrs. Hudson was humming lullabies under her breath, hard to hear under the drone of the news. She’d taken Sherlock’s ‘living’ status well, sitting on the toilet seat to take in huge lungfuls of air while Molly showered. Knowing what Molly smelled like when she came out of the basement, and how Sherlock and John were even when they weren’t in heat, it seemed she was already looking forward to a new baby or two in the house. 

Molly wouldn’t mind a kid or two of her own, and if this mess was really over, she’d have to do something about that. Go on more dates, and spend less time wondering why they didn’t call back. Jim from IT very nearly put her off dating entirely, as he stood her up for their fourth date and then seemed to drop off the face of the Earth. Anthea was scary competent and smart as a whip, but busy and likely to cancel dates often. 

That was a pipe dream, though, as an alpha that beautiful and rich could have any omega in the world. That paramedic had asked for her phone number the other day, and he seemed nice enough, even if Molly wasn’t sure of his name yet. If he called, she’d have to ask how he spelled it so she could put it in her phone correctly, her go-to excuse for things like that. 

“Was that the doorbell?” Mrs. Hudson asked, pulling Molly from her thoughts. It rang again and both women got to their feet. 

Remembering what she was wearing, Molly let Mrs. Hudson answer the door. When she heard Mycroft’s voice, Molly considered hiding in the loo until he left, but braved it out. 

“Mrs. Hudson, I’m afraid I must speak with you, Molly, and John.” 

“Come on in, let me put the kettle on.” Mrs. Hudson breezed through and messed around in the kitchen, while Mycroft and Greg let themselves into the flat. Waiting for the kettle to boil, Mrs. Hudson stepped out to where they could see her. 

“Wouldn’t John appreciate tea as well?” Mycroft asked, and Molly knew they’d been found out. 

“He’s in the basement, making that damp flat homey.” Mrs. Hudson smiled as she said it, not intimidated at all. 

“I have surveillance footage of the three of you driving to Mr. Magnussen’s house. Two of you went in, left a cane and came back with a tall woman. It is imperative that I speak with her.” 

“It’s Sherlock.” Molly said. “He was in disguise, and his presence kick-started a heat.” 

Mycroft’s look didn’t rake down her body, but he seemed suddenly aware of why she’d changed clothes. Greg at least blushed when he realized she’d almost been in a sympathetic heat. 

“I was going to give them a few more minutes, to get reacquainted.” Mrs. Hudson said, as casually as if she really thought they were talking over tea down there. “Then I’d take them some blankets and supplies.” 

“I’ll do that,” Greg volunteered. “Being a beta has some perks.” 

Mrs. Hudson’s smile showed that she was going to use strong, young arms when they offered themselves to her. Leading Greg to her linen closet, Mrs. Hudson piled his arms with blankets, sheets, and towels. 

“The fewer people that know how many people were here tonight the better.” Mycroft said to Molly. “I will have Anthea take you home.” 

Blushing, Molly turned back to the bathroom, meaning to change her clothes again. The kettle whistled behind her, but Mycroft moved toward it first. Molly locked the door and changed as slowly as she dared, feeling the urge to drop into bed and sleep for a week. When she at long last emerged, Anthea was serving tea and apparently alone. She smiled at Molly and held out a cup. After a sip, Molly smiled back; Anthea had remembered how she liked it. 

“Where’s Mrs. Hudson?” Molly asked, noticing the strangely empty flat. 

“Opening doors for Lestrade. Mr. Holmes is waiting for him in the landing.” Anthea replied professionally, before smiling at Molly. “Guess it’s just you and me for the moment.” 

“That sounds nice.” Molly said, but a noise in the hallway stopped her from thinking about it or trying to stutter through and explanation of what she’d just said. They both got up to check on the noise, to find Greg leaning against the stairs. He was sweating and breathing heavy, heavier than expected from taking John some blankets. Molly went to him, checking his pulse and temperature. “Greg, what’s wrong? I’m a doctor but living people aren’t my thing.” 

“Just tired.” Greg offered with a slow wave of his hand. His eyes followed his hand in a detached sort of way, as if he were drunk or drugged. 

“Greg, something’s wrong, I know that. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were having a sympathetic heat.” Movement behind her had Molly turning around to look. Anthea had backed off, eyes large, and now Mycroft was leaning over her to sniff Greg. 

“You don’t smell as you normally do.” Mycroft confirmed in a voice about two octaves below normal. “You smell rather lovely, in fact.” 

Greg smiled at Mycroft for that, an intimate smile Molly didn’t think she was supposed to see. With the smile came the heavy smell of arousal, and the tang of slick. Reusing the ideas she’d used on Sherlock, Molly stood and backed away. 

“Up the stairs there is an empty bed. You probably don’t want to bother Mrs. Hudson, but it sounds better than taking Greg outside. Mycroft, you know all those alphas out there won’t care if he’s a beta, not smelling like that. Won’t care that he’s yours.” 

“Mine.” Mycroft said softly, almost calmly, before picking Greg up in his arms. 

Soon enough, he was carrying Greg upstairs, and Greg let him. Kissing on the landing wasn’t planned, but it did give Mrs. Hudson enough time to open the flat from the inside, having gone in through the kitchen door. They stumbled by her, let her close the door once she was on the correct side. She was smiling as she came down the stairs, a grin Molly found herself returning. 

“I’ve never known an omega to do that to a beta.” Mrs. Hudson said as she led the way back to the tea. 

“Is that really what happened?” Anthea asked, professional once again. 

“I don’t know, but I doubt Mycroft would let him go to the hospital smelling like that.” Molly shrugged, before finishing off her now cold tea. “It’s possible, though. Several large pharmaceutical companies are working on fertility drugs for betas, so they can have more kids. Greg would have to be exposed to the drug over time, at least according to the last research I read.” 

“Do you want that?” Anthea asked, skipping over the questions Molly expected from such a statement. “As an omega, would you want betas to have more reproductive choices?” 

“Yes. If more betas can have kids, more omegas might be able to have lives. I wouldn’t be expected to have a litter of kids, and I’d actually get to know the two or three I choose to have. Betas have all the choices, except for kids, and once we make that even, maybe the rest of us will get a fair shake too.” 

Having said her piece, Molly leaned back to glare at Anthea, even as the blush worked into her face. She believed in what she had to say, but knew such thoughts were what kept her in the dating pool. Molly was not prepared for Anthea to grin at her. 

“Logical, reasonable, and very well said. I’m not surprised that you had the courage to say it, though I am impressed.” 

“Do you really mean that?” 

“Yes. I’m actually a very honest person; my job requires me to be less than truthful. Could you handle not being in on the details of my work?” 

Molly laughed at being asked. “I’m an omega; I’m not supposed to want to know what anyone does. But, as a medical professional, I know all about confidentiality. As a pathologist, I also know about the importance of keeping work and life separate, and frequent showers.” 

“I thought so. Would you be interested in going out to dinner with me?” 

“What, me? You’re beautiful and that’s all I know about you.” Molly could almost hear the sound of a train wreck, so she forced her mouth shut. Mrs. Hudson took up the slack, though; reminding them both she was in the room. 

“Anthea, dear, what Molly means is that we don’t even know your real name.” 

“It really is Anthea, I simply tell people my name in such a way as to make them think I’m lying. Most of my aliases have normal names, to blend in. Anthea doesn’t blend in, not in too many places.” 

“That … makes sense to me.” Molly said. Anthea smiled as if encouraged by Molly’s agreement. 

“The name was part of the contract; I’m a bought bastard.” 

“I didn’t know people still did that, having an illegitimate child for pay. Not that it’s your problem if your parents weren’t bonded, you still had a good upbringing, right? They didn’t treat you badly, did they?” Molly had to stop her mouth again, but Anthea didn’t look offended at what she’d said. 

“My mother has eight other children, with a different father. She wouldn’t have been able to bond with him without having me first; they lived on the money until he finished university. 

“I’m glad she had you, then. I mean, that she agreed to sell her heat like that, well, not sell, that sounds naughty. Though it was a transaction, it worked out the best for everyone, right?” 

“Yes, it did work out. It also taught me the value of a strong-willed, independent omega. And now that I’ve found one, I’m not going to take offense at everything you say, so you don’t have to try and explain yourself. I look forward to learning to understand what you mean.” 

Molly didn’t know if she was blushing or not, caught up in Anthea’s words. “Mycroft wanted you to take me home. If someone else is driving, we could compare schedules?” 

“Absolutely.” Anthea replied, her smile making her look years younger. 

Molly smiled back, not knowing her smile made her radiant. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


	12. Life's not done with John.

John woke to the full body pain that came from sleeping on a slab of concrete, and the internal exhaustion of a heat. He’d have been happy to go back to sleep, except the pain and full bladder wouldn’t let him. The warm body pressed to his back was taller than him, and probably holding off the worst of the pain. His bladder reminded him of why he was awake, with a sharp pain to join the others, so John slowly opened his eyes. 

He saw he was mostly lying on a wad of random blankets and sheets, head pillowed on a clump of toweling. Across from him, there was a scattering of empty water bottles, power drinks, power bars, and even some fancy bars optimally balanced to encourage an omega to conceive during a heat. All John’s feelings about thanking Mrs. Hudson for bringing them what she could quieted down at the sight of those bars. Like some random murdering alpha John picked up at a burglary would want to raise kids in 221B. 

Remembering that about the person warming his back, John realized he still smelled Sherlock, or at least Sherlock and him. Grabbing his pillow/towel, John carried it to the bathroom with him, and didn’t look back at the alpha. Sitting on the toilet, John let his body do what it needed to do after a heat. He wasn’t dehydrated, which showed the alpha had made sure he was drinking during the heat, and eating if the empty wrappers were any kind of clue, so a caring alpha. Who had shot a man for threatening her omega’s children, and John couldn’t really blame her for that. 

Getting to his feet, John went to the shower. The water here seemed to heat up quicker than upstairs, and he was soon under the spray. He’d gotten to know Sherlock and Mary while pregnant, and he could do that with this alpha as well. It would keep Molly and Mrs. Hudson safe, their part in the burglary kept secret. If the alpha wasn’t just a lonely woman punishing the man who’d hurt her children, if she was evil, conniving, or otherwise a pain in John’s arse … he was skilled in killing alphas. 

First, he had to get his brain over the desire to smell and feel Sherlock everywhere. He had a headache, which he put down to the new bond forming, but he wasn’t sick and needed to know what he was getting into here. Cupping his hand, he let it fill with water. Holding it up to his nose, he snorted in the water. It burned, and came dripping back out with some of the contents of his sinuses, but it was a good way to clear out smells, set his nose back to factory settings. A few repeats, and he coughed as the water trailed down the back of his throat, letting the water wash him clean. 

There was no shower curtain here, but John was still distracted enough to only be aware of another person when the water was shut off. He jerked around to see, and still saw and smelled Sherlock. 

“John, are you alright?” It was Sherlock’s voice he heard, the rich vibration a far cry from what that alpha woman had used. “It really is me, John. Short version? Mycroft’s idea, Sherlock; not dead.” 

John reacted, left fist popping Sherlock in the nose. Holding his bleeding, broken nose, Sherlock looked up to where John was still standing in the shower. 

“What do you have against my nose?” 

That did it, got John moving. He prowled over to Sherlock, flipping the commode lid closed and forcing Sherlock to sit. A quick look showed the nose was broken, but not too bad, in fact the bleeding seemed to be slowing already, so John had no problem putting concern for it aside. Leaning forward, John kissed Sherlock. Explanations would wait, as would some massive apologies from both Holmes brothers and probably Greg. 

Lifting his right leg and resting it between Sherlock’s, John reached for his own arsehole. This close to his heat, it didn’t take much teasing to start the slick again. Once it was flowing, John coated his fingers and dropped his leg so he could rub at Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock tensed for a moment, as he thought about, and then he scooted forward and leaned back to provide John with better access. John moved his mouth down that long neck, letting Sherlock breathe through his mouth as he was slowly opened with John’s fingers and John’s slick. 

John was hard, but it wasn’t as important as this, whatever this was. He’d never had Sherlock like this before, but he could understand it was some sort of claiming ritual he seemed to need. This was how alphas claimed omegas after all, and Sherlock needed to understand something. John was his, yes, but he was John’s. Leaving John behind, no matter whose idea it was, was unacceptable. Sherlock would have left even if John had claimed him this way, but this primitive need wasn’t to be subdued by logic. 

Sherlock was leaking precum and mewling as he grabbed at whatever parts of John he could reach before John decided he was ready. Liberally coating his cock with his slick, John squatted a bit and bent Sherlock a little bit more to align them. Slowly, he entered Sherlock, knowing he’d only ever entered the vagina of another person. This was different, but close enough that he could make it good for Sherlock. Fully seated, he paused, and waited. 

“Move, John, I’m ready.” Sherlock commanded, so John remained still. It seemed an eternity, but Sherlock’s brain eventually started working. “Please, John.” 

John stuttered, his own desire working against his judgment, but he managed to pause again. 

“John, I love you, I never should have left. John, I missed you so much, loved you from across the world. John, please, take me; I’m yours.” 

It wasn’t begging, but it was the words John needed to hear, words showing Sherlock understood even if John didn’t fully. John moved, slowly as he could, pulling and thrusting as he looked for the angle, the spot that would make Sherlock fall apart. Sherlock slipped on the seat, scrunching up a bit more, and cried out as John’s cock dragged across his prostate. Grinning, John sped up, making sure to hit that spot on every stroke. 

Sherlock was now clutching at everything, John, and the walls and the toilet; anything to stop falling apart. John let him, knowing Sherlock would fall apart and needing to be the one to do that do him. The toilet flushed a couple of times under his grabbing hands, and about the time the lid crashed to the floor, Sherlock was coming, spirting over his omega. John bit his claiming mark into that long neck, and just pounded into his alpha until his orgasm overwhelmed him. 

Not having a knot, John was able to pull out much sooner, as the blood from his cock returned to his body. Gently, he lowered Sherlock’s legs to the floor, wondering just when they’d wound up on John’s shoulders. Staggering backwards, John sat on the edge of the tub and stared. There were new scars on Sherlock, some fading bruises, and dried blood under his nose and on his shoulder. Frowning, John forced himself to stand, pulling Sherlock’s head around so he could look. The neat stitches had been torn, repeatedly, but the skin was overlarge, as if it had expanded to cover a growth that was no longer there. 

“It kept you from feeling the bond.” Sherlock said, his mind reading powers still intact. “It’s gone now.” 

“And forever?” 

“Forever, because I’m never going to be so far away that you can’t do that to me again.” 

“Good boy. Now, we’re going to find something to eat and start in on the explanations you owe me.” 

“Once we’re rested, I’ll let Mycroft explain things. Fat git deserves a broken nose.” 

“It’s on my ‘to do’ list.” John replied, but they still sat and stared at each other for a few minutes, recovering more than just physical strength. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 

Wearing togas fashioned from their collection of bedding, both draped so that their bonding bites showed, they did eventually make their way up the stairs. John directed Sherlock to their flat, figuring they could get dressed before begging food from Mrs. Hudson. He’d never told Mycroft to empty the flat, never done it himself, and since Mycroft knew Sherlock was alive, it stood to reason that it was still full of their belongings. He didn’t expect it to be full of people, but Greg was on the couch talking with Mrs. Hudson, while someone made noise in the kitchen. 

“That’s my lab equipment!” Sherlock yelled at the kitchen, getting everybody’s attention. 

Mycroft emerged from the kitchen to frown at his brother. “I had tests to run.” 

“Make your minions do it, and get out of my flat.” Sherlock didn’t move from behind John, but he did switch his glare to Greg when he started laughing. 

“John, mate, we are certifiable for hooking up with these lunatics.” 

“You didn’t know that going in?” John asked, while Sherlock slipped his arms around his waist. 

“Sherlock’s not letting you in the door because Mycroft’s here, and Mycroft’s not letting me out the door because there are so many other alphas out there. And both of them just made sounds of protest.” 

As they had indeed, so John could only nod in agreement. “Possessive streak is inherited, I guess. Sherlock just got me back though, so what’s Mycroft’s deal?” 

“My git was with me, a lowly beta, so he wasn’t used to being possessive, until your heat.” 

“What’s my heat got to do with anything?” 

“I don’t know where you were storing your pheromones, mate, but you almost kick started a heat in Molly. And you did kick me into one.” 

“What?” Sherlock made a surprised noise in time with John’s question, so he was a least paying attention to the conversation. A quick glance showed John that Mycroft was messing with his phone, controlling the world in the casual trousers and silk shirt one of his minions must have brought over. 

“Seems someone slipped me Mickey Finn, and now I’m a fertile beta. Oh, and I’m pregnant, with an alpha who has no idea how to fight his possessive and protective instincts.” 

John started laughing, and Greg joined in. Mycroft and Sherlock shared a look, and came to a silent agreement. Sherlock directed John to his chair, but was unable to leave his side. Sherlock gave a startled grunt as he tried to perch on the arm of John’s chair, one that made John smirk, but some adjusting had him leaning forward to interrogate Greg. 

“Who did this?” 

Greg rolled his eyes. “Your brother has forbidden me from telling you. Says he’s taking care of it.” 

“It would have to be somebody who could get through Mycroft’s security, and him not wanting me to know suggests it’s someone I know.” 

John turned, just in time to see Sherlock’s ‘case-solved’ face, and found himself grinning like a fool at the sight. 

“Mummy was really that desperate for grandchildren?” 

“Told you!” Greg called to the kitchen, though no reply seemed forthcoming. “Mycroft didn’t want to believe it, said you’d never think of it either. Dearest Mummy snuck some fertility drugs into my Christmas present, a bottle of whiskey that Mycroft insisted only I drink.” 

“It was an attempt to show Gregory how much I valued him, as he was overwhelmed by the price of the whiskey.” Mycroft was almost contrite sounding from where he stood in the kitchen doorway. “In the future, I shall leave my efforts at controlling sentimentality to the political sphere.” 

“That was the promise I got out of him in order to convince me to stay here until his instincts calmed down.” Greg said, with a knowing look at John. 

“Fair play to you.” John would have saluted him, but Mrs. Hudson was there with a mug of tea. It was a distracting as it was delicious, and followed up by a large bowl of lamb stew. 

“One cup of caffeinated tea a day, remember.” Mrs. Hudson said, slowing down John’s chugging of the tea. “Nanny Badcrumble will know if you take too much.” 

“Nanny Badcrumble? She’s still alive?” Sherlock asked from his perch, one hand holding his own bowl of stew. 

While Sherlock pondered the woman’s longevity, John tried to remember if he’d mentioned Sean at any point before his heat. 

“Sean’s upstairs with her now.” Mrs. Hudson offered, as if to ease John’s worries. 

He wasn’t really worried too much, having trusted these people to take care of Sean if he wound up dead or in jail for breaking and entering. But Sherlock wasn’t reacting with shock or outrage, he actually seemed to be eating his stew, so John smiled at Mrs. Hudson. The urge to check on Sean was strong, but John held off while he ate the stew his body desperately needed. This also let Mrs. Hudson say her piece. 

“Mycroft only let her into the flat because he recognized Sean as kin, and she held Sean. Anthea has come and gone, keeping him updated on work and the samples Mycroft took from Greg. I find it very interesting that he’s only letting family in, and Anthea is included.” Mrs. Hudson’s knowing look was leveled at the kitchen, where it seemed Mycroft managed to ignore it. 

John grinned and shared a look with Sherlock. Neither comment out loud about Mrs. Hudson being included in that list. That was more telling than Mycroft trusting somebody he worked with daily and had vetted extensively. 

“Anthea has been a very useful in keeping me updated about the world outside this flat.” Mycroft said, as he brought two cups of tea over and sat next to Greg. Greg smiled as he took the tea and leaned toward his alpha. “For instance, a cane and a pair of high-heeled women’s shoes were found at a crime scene. Unfortunately, the fire scorched the cane, so the serial number was not recovered, never mind any fingerprints. It seems that the shoes were new enough that no genetic information was left inside. Tragic how these things happen, when you’re trying to solve a crime. Magnussen had some beautiful antique furniture that was lost in the fire.” 

John snorted a laugh, and set his empty bowl aside. “Long as it’s not Greg’s case, I’ll live with it not being solved. For now, I want to introduce Sherlock to Sean. Guess I should bring him down here, so you and Greg can stop Sherlock if his alpha instincts try to harm Sean?” 

“I’d never!” Sherlock started to protest, but he stopped when John laid a gentle hand on his arm. 

“Instincts are more powerful than you think, especially so soon after a heat. We could wait a few days before introducing you, but I want to be able to hold him and keep an eye on you.” 

“So I don’t leave again.” Sherlock hung his head a little, but nodded at John. 

“Mycroft.” Greg growled, getting Sherlock and John to look at him. 

“Yes, Gregory.” Mycroft answered, as if he understood what Greg wanted and was agreeing to it. “While I am unable to determine how it happened without more facts, I did run the paternity test you asked for, John. It would seem Sean’s alpha is Sherlock.” 

“What?” Mrs. Hudson joined in the chorus for that question, a lovely counterpoint to the deep rumble of Sherlock and the tenor of John. 

“I admitted I needed more information about the circumstances, but there is no doubt of the genetic test results.” 

“Did you tell Sherlock about what I was doing while he was gone?” John asked, looking for a place to start. 

“No. I wanted him to believe you safe and accounted for while he was away, doing vital work for your safety.” 

“John?” Sherlock asked, with many questions enveloped in that one word. 

“Later, luv. For now, you just need to know that it was a bad winter, and I got sick, pneumonia. Holed up in the building across the way, and had a heat.” 

“Across the way?” Mrs. Hudson almost shrieked her anger. “Did you think I’d turn you over or run you out if you made it across the road?” 

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t put you in danger. I needed a safe place out of the elements to recover, but where I wouldn’t be expected. Plus, it was close enough to home to make me feel secure.” 

Mrs. Hudson sipped her tea, but smiled a little over the rim. John took it as forgiveness and kept talking. 

“I was sick through my heat, so I hallucinated that Sherlock was there, but woke up with Mary caring for me.” John looked to Sherlock, unsure of where to go from here. 

“Place has been under constructions since Moriarty’s bomb, before Sherlock found you. How’d you know you wouldn’t be found there?” Greg asked. 

“Know the construction was on hiatus while the money was sorted out.” John answered. 

“Mr. Asago couldn’t afford to fix it, you know that.” Mrs. Hudson said. “I had him over for tea and you came down, since Sherlock was in one of his moods. He told us how hard it was to sell a building he couldn’t afford to repair, even with the insurance money.” 

“That’s when I bought it off him; I think you’d gone to take some biscuits to Sherlock.” 

Silence met John’s announcement as they turned to stare at him. Even Mycroft looked surprised, for him. There was a moment’s hesitation before Mycroft returned his mug to the coaster on the coffee table. John didn’t even know they had coasters. 

“What?” John asked, blinking back at the stares. “For this area, it was a steal. Construction should be finished within the year, and Mrs. Hudson won’t be able to complain about not having neighbors anymore.” 

“John,” Mycroft started in his most pompous voice. “Where did you get the money for this project?” 

“Sherlock made more than five million pounds in two weeks and Mr. Asago wanted to retire.” John shrugged. “I just forged Sherlock’s signature on the forms they insisted my alpha sign, though I’m surprised this got past your nose, Mycroft. Since Sherlock’s supposed death made headlines, the construction firm refused to work until my new alpha took charge of the project. Since that was Mycroft, I rather expected him to be fully aware of where Sherlock’s money had gone, and decide what to do with the rest of it.” 

John sipped his tea, Mycroft sipped at his own while glaring a little. Greg and Mrs. Hudson looked amused, though Sherlock seemed to have been hit by a wave of how much he loved John, going by the dazed, sappy look on is face. 

“October, a year ago.” Mycroft said to Sherlock, giving him a timeframe and diverting them back to the discussion of Sean’s alpha. 

“France.” Sherlock said back. 

“The particulars, if you please.” Mycroft said. 

“For the rest of us,” Greg interjected. “If you please.” 

“Riga, before.” Sherlock said, before remembering he was supposed to explain to people who needed actual details. “I was trapped in an omega whorehouse; I had to cut out the bond inhibitor in order to fight the pheromones. You saved me John, even if you weren’t there.” 

“Bond inhibitor? I don’t know how that works, but it’s possible the removal of it could have kick started my heat, if Sherlock was close enough.” 

“Next time I saw him, he was in France.” Mycroft added, with a glare at Sherlock for staying off his radar. 

“I grabbed the first boat I could, but all I could think of was John. I had strange thoughts about going home to him, finding him in Baker St. and raising a child with him. It was a weird hallucination, and when I woke up I was able to explain it away. Apparently, I latched onto,” Sherlock hesitated in his speech, “a child that reminded me of John, and followed him around France. It is possible that I tried to return to John, throwing him into a heat. Might have left him for some reason, to get food or something, only to be distracted by the child. Improbable, but not impossible.” 

“That wouldn’t explain why Mary thought they were bonded.” Greg said without disputing Sherlock’s convoluted claim. 

“I thought we were bonded,” John spoke up. “After that heat, when I woke up and she was taking care of me. The bond felt different, stronger than what Mycroft claimed was a familial bond with him, which I now know was a repressed bond. So, yeah, it was strange, new and I thought it was the bond with a new person, a normal alpha. Thought what Sherlock and I had was special, and I’d never even get close to that kind of bond with another person.” 

“I should think that was obvious,” Mycroft sniffed dismissively. “Sherlock broke his legs in his fall, and John walked around with a psychosomatic limp until the bond was opened up again.” 

It was Mycroft’s turn to look smug as he delivered his understanding of what had happened. John and Greg hadn’t known Sherlock broke his legs, and Sherlock hadn’t known John had a limp. John had known the limp was psychosomatic, but not the cause, and Mrs. Hudson thought John had been injured when he collapsed after Sherlock’s fall. 

“You’re only allowed to gloat when everybody had access to the same information and you were the only one to solve it.” Sherlock reprimanded his brother. 

John knew Sherlock would be emphasizing his words with his violin if only he didn’t have to leave John’s side to go get it. Greg reached up to rub at his forehead, all the better to hide his smile. Greg’s action brought up a memory of Mary doing the same. “Oh, God, Mary got headaches when she read.” 

Everyone stared at John, clearly not understanding what this piece of information had to do with anything. 

“I teased her about going to the eye doctor, getting reading glasses. She’d say something about not needing them all the time, not wanting to look like an old woman when her baby got here. It was a joke, and I never made her go, but an eye doctor would have found it, made her go in for tests. Couple of times, she got a bloody nose, but she bought a humidifier and it seemed to clear up. It’s a good thing I’m not a practicing doctor, if I missed this in a woman I loved.” 

“Missed what, John?” Sherlock asked, skipping over the idea that John loved Mary. 

“A tumor on the pituitary gland. Causes headaches, nosebleeds, eye problems. In alphas, it can cause a poor sense of smell and delusions. Since the pituitary regulates hormones it could have convinced Mary we were bonded. Bet if we exhumed her body, not that I want to, Mycroft, but I bet we’d find a tumor on her pituitary gland.” 

“But that’s not what killed her?” Sherlock asked, not having been informed of anything relating to John. 

“I killed her. My specialty, you know, killing alphas.” John’s voice was mournful and Sherlock ached to sooth his mate. 

“I’ll have Nanny bring Sean down.” Mrs. Hudson announced, standing and moving to the stairs. 

“You are invited to our wedding, at the Holmes’ estate, in four months. You will be put up for the weekend, so pack accordingly.” Mycroft said, though his attention was back on his phone. 

“Mummy’s going to let you plan a wedding in four months? Doesn’t really seem like her, as she loves micromanaging the details for social events.” 

“Mycroft asked in February, but I didn’t think he’d want the full ceremony. Ring was on the dresser, that was enough for me.” 

“I’ve come to an agreement with Mummy, part of which is that she gets to plan the wedding at the estate.” Mycroft looked up the stairs, hoping for a change of subject to come walking down them. 

“John, part of that money I earned was earmarked for buying you a platinum bonding bracelet. Do you want a ceremony to go with it?” 

John was given Mycroft’s distraction, as Nanny and Mrs. Hudson came downstairs, Sean on Nanny’s boney hip. Nanny walked around John’s chair, so she could carefully hand Sean to John, as far from Sherlock as they could get with him sitting on the arm of the chair. 

John smelled happy as he held his son, and Sherlock didn’t feel the tiniest urge to do something about the baby that was making John happy. No longer worried about his alpha instincts, Sherlock knelt beside the chair and sniffed his mate and child. 

“He’s got your eyes, Sherlock. I think his central heterochromia is the only bonding bracelet I need.” 

Sherlock buried his face in John’s shoulder, unable to articulate all the things he was feeling. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

John waddled (no matter what Sherlock said about ‘appropriate physical parameters’ John fucking waddled and he knew it). John waddled out to the grounds of the Holmes’ estate. Wasn’t even supposed to really show until five months along, but that didn’t matter when you were outnumbered by your own womb cargo. John figured it was best to concentrate on what was going on around him, instead of inside him. 

Everything had been professionally decorated, the weather was holding, and Mother Holmes was smug but subdued. Sherlock had driven them down yesterday, and not since Afghanistan had John been so delighted in his ability to pee standing up. He’d advise any pregnant person to avoid that drive, as he’d taken to peeing in empty water bottles to avoid prolonging the agonizing trip any more. John wondered if Greg had done the same, but to avoid waking his bladder, John forced his thoughts back to the wedding. 

He’d just come from the nearest loo and wasn’t keen on going again. He’d found the row of seats reserved for family, and sat down on the isle to let people fill in around him. He was huge and hormonal; they could fucking go around. Greg found him first, getting into a chair with much greater ease than John had. 

“Sorry you couldn’t be my best man,” Greg apologized for the eighth time. 

“Not enough room up there for me and this army.” The gesture at his pregnancy bulge was entirely unnecessary. “It’s not fair that you’re not even showing.” 

“Benefit of only having the one up there. Do you know yet?” Greg’s hand was caressing his tiny belly bump even as he joked about it. 

“Scan two days ago.” John said, and waited a beat for the sake of anticipation. “Four.” 

Greg made a noise between a curse, a cough, and a parroting of the number. John nodded in agreement. 

“Four. Doc says my body is trying to make up for lost time, all those years on suppressors. Plus, omegas often get last bursts of fertility before andropause, and my age isn’t doing me any favors.” 

“Mine’s worried about my age too, couldn’t care less that I’ve been chemically altered to be fertile.” 

“Let’s get this ceremony going before we get any older than, mate.” John tossed a smile at his friend. “Or I have to pee again.” 

“God, I don’t know how you managed to get here. I was trying to figure out how to ask the pilot to find a petrol station when the house came in sight.” 

“Pilot?” 

“Yeah, the helicopter pilot that brought me and Mycroft out here?” Greg asked, confused at John’s sudden anger. 

“I’m going to kill Sherlock, as soon as I can reach him. Bastard made us drive.” 

“For his sake, I’m going to put that down to being worried about your safety, and not an experiment in torture.” Greg offered with a friendly pat on the arm. “Mycroft left me out of all the arrangements, wanted it all to be a surprise.” 

“Thank God Sherlock’s above such dramatics.” Both men laughed, but Greg stopped short when he had an idea. 

“You know how we can get them back?” 

John replied with a questioning hum. 

“We need a secret they can’t figure out.” 

“You got one in mind?” 

“I do, in fact. It’s already driving Mycroft nuts, relatively, but if I knew and he didn’t?” Greg grinned into John’s half-hearted nod. “Once Sherlock thinks to ask, he probably won’t figure it out either, and he’ll know you know. So, John, just between you, me, and whatever is on the back of this chair, how did you pass the army medical?” 

“Well now,” John settled back in his chair, the better to try and figure out why the bloody chairs were dressed to the nines. “It would be fun to hold this over them, but maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea to admit it after all this time.” 

“Oh, come on, John. Must I beg?” 

“Don’t embarrass us both. I can’t tell you; I don’t know your security clearance.” John shot Greg a look to show he was joking. “Hypothetically, let’s say someone who wanted to join the army was graduating from Hogwarts.” 

“Hogwarts? Good school.” Greg nodded wisely. 

“This guy knew a Quidditch player; bright star on the pitch, hunk of rock in the classrooms.” 

“Know the type.” 

“Couple shots of firewhiskey, an up-and-coming healer who wants to join the army bets the Quidditch player he can’t pass the physical. Naturally, he has to be close when the medical is given, to prove he took the bet. Also, with an intern healer on hand, he can make sure the paperwork doesn’t show up in a recruiter’s office, at least not with the Quidditch star’s name on it.” 

“And our Quidditch star never turns in the healer, because he doesn’t even know he broke the law.” Greg was grinning to break his face. “John, that is some Holmes’ level thinking.” 

“It’s all hypothetical; no telling if that’d work in the real world.” John grinned back, as the background music was abandoned for the band to set up. 

“I think they’re playing my song.” Greg said. 

It was more of an ensemble than a band, but their appearance got Greg up and moving, off to the tent where he was supposed to be waiting. John was left to make small talk with whoever sat next to him, but when Mother Holmes showed up she merely gave him a smug smile and stared at the altar. When the song started, Sally Donavan stepped out of Greg’s tent, holding the door flap open for him. Sherlock did the same, holding open the door of Mycroft’s waiting room in the house. Once outside, the men-of-honor lead their grooms to the altar. 

Sherlock and Mycroft were polite to each other, while Sally seemed happy for Greg. Since Greg was a pregnant beta, the traditional bonding ceremony for alpha to beta had been merged with the one for an alpha and pregnant omega. Instead of exchanging bond bites, or forcing one on an unwilling omega, Sally and Sherlock bound their hands with a bit of ribbon, from beta bondings. The ribbon had to be bound so that it would stay without knots, so Sally and Sherlock had to work together for once. 

Maybe it was because he knew them, but John held his breathe after the official said all the proper words. Sherlock grabbed Mycroft’s unbound hand, and Sally took Greg’s. When the official dropped their bound hands, Sherlock and Sally pulled. If the ribbon fell off, the bonding couldn’t take place. Sally and Sherlock seemed to tug harder than tradition dictated, but the ribbon held. John had a lovely sigh of relief. 

A few more words, and Mycroft and Greg walked away from the altar, hands still bound. Sally and Sherlock stood by the official, symbolically saying that from now on, Greg and Mycroft would be the best for each other. John snuck out of the far side of the rows of seats, and headed for the bathroom. Four people were too many to rest on one bladder. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 

When he finally felt his bladder was empty enough to risk leaving the loo, John went to the ballroom. The reception would be held there, and a buffet would be offered in the formal dining room John hadn’t been in yet. For now, he took the chair nearest the loo and did his best to look happy to be there. He was happy for Greg and Mycroft; he was slowly forgiving them for the lies about Sherlock’s death. But this pregnancy was wearing him out and he’d much rather be back at Baker Street than watching other people get drunk. 

He was watching the dancers when something squished into him, throwing small arms around his middle. A random, upset child was seeking shelter in the nearest omega; a common occurrence. John looked at the small head of platinum blond hair, not being able to tell the gender. He could pat the small back and offer comforting noises, while looking into the crowd for concerned adults. He heard them before he saw them. 

“You scared him, getting mad at nothing, so you have to fix this.” 

“Crowds upset him, so why were we invited to your boss’s wedding and why the hell did we come?” 

John felt his hand stop on the child’s back, sure he knew that voice. Older, gruffer than he’d last heard it, though it had been raised in anger then as well. It wasn’t until she made it through the crowd that he let himself think the name. 

“Harry?” 

The world paused for a moment, as Harry stared at him, disbelief on her face. Throwing herself down, she wrapped an arm around his shoulders, the other over the child. The kid turned and hugged Harry, so John was able to focus on his sister. He’d last seen her the day before he shipped out. 

She’d borrowed money from the wrong sort of people, and was trying to convince him to stay. The only way she could make up the money she’d lost and keep drinking would be to sell him to an alpha. He’d known that, taken his stuff, and walked out. She’d shouted angry words at him, too drunk to follow or try and physically stop him. He’d accepted her last words as the last he’d hear from her, a demand that he never return. Now, with her arm around his shoulder, she seemed to be babbling apologies and sniffing to hold back tears. 

No doubt, she could smell how pregnant he was, and hopefully how happy he was to see her. The beta who was watching them rearranged the chairs so they could face each other. When Harry gave a final sniff and pulled away, she smiled at the beta as she sat in a chair. The siblings looked at each other for a long moment, taking in the changes of time. Harry was the first to break the stillness, instantly back in big sister mode. 

“Spill.” 

John chuckled. “Where would I even start?” John smiled up at the beta, realizing she looked familiar. “Do I know you?” 

“This is my wife, Clara.” Harry said with a contented smile. “We met after I got sober.” 

“You helped Sherlock bring me back from Ireland.” John was surprised and exited that he’d placed where he’d met Clara before. A mental review of his words showed that he hadn’t said anything that might get Harry in trouble. She was his sister, but he didn’t have any idea what her security clearance was. 

“Harry,” Clara spoke calmly to her mate. “I was told his name was John Holmes. This happened before we met and I never put it together.” 

Harry seemed mollified, but still slightly irritated; a look John knew well. He directed his next question to Clara, and tried for something happy. “How did you two meet?” 

Clara’s eyes widened, and John knew this wasn’t the right question for a distraction. 

“She moved in right after they brought me Jean-Luc. Helped me learn how to take care of him without killing either of us.” Harry answered, but her voice was hard, emotionless. “About the same time that they told me he was yours, and you were dead.” 

“Jean-Luc?” John asked, even as he remembered Sherlock’s efforts to name his first baby that. 

The boy in question turned at the sound of his name, looking at the strange omega with intelligent, dark brown eyes, under the light blond hair that would darken with age, like it had for his father and aunt. 

John looked at the child he’d been told was dead, and made the connection. “I’m going to kill Mycroft.” 

John stated this in a calm voice that only Harry knew was a sign of danger. She reached out a hand to calm him down even as he stood, so she was able to ease him back into the chair when he passed out. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

There was a beta in the room, that was the first thing John was aware of, the second being the older smell of Sherlock and him. Habit had him hiding he was awake until he could assess the situation, but once he figured out he was in the room they’d stayed in last night at the Holmes’ estate, John opened his eyes. He looked to the bulge of his stomach, glad to see it was still there. 

“Easy, John. They are fine.” The beta offered in a soft voice, mindful that John might have a headache. 

John turned at looked at the older gentleman, with his professional yet calm face. 

“Hi. I’m Dr. Sterns, and I’m an omega specialist. I only have the basic equipment with me, but you and your babies are fine.” 

His words were meant to calm down a patient but he managed to avoid the condescension that trouble most doctors for omegas. 

“Wait. Dr. Rupert Sterns? As in London’s preeminent omega specialist? Who just happened to be at the wedding?” 

Dr. Sterns had the grace to look sheepish for a moment before he answered. “I wasn’t here to ‘accidentally’ meet you, though that does rather sound like Mycroft. I was Mummy Holmes’ doctor for her pregnancies. I’m not sure of the details, but apparently I was the only one she would believe to tell her the ankle monitor wasn’t going to harm her.” 

“Mycroft put his own mother in an ankle monitor.” Said somewhere between a question and a statement, it was really how John thought about it. With Mummy on house arrest, it would be easy for Mycroft to monitor her internet and phone usage, keeping her from causing any more problems. “Mycroft’s kid doesn’t stand a chance of teenage rebellion.” 

Dr. Sterns chuckled. “I’m counting on that husband of his to have some common sense.” 

“Know the family well, even though your tone suggests Mummy isn’t your favorite patient?” 

“Good ear, John. I try not to let that show.” Dr. Sterns shifted in his chair. “Fresh out of med school, opened a practice and had a famous movie star walk in. What’s not to love?” 

“I don’t think she became this manipulative and self-centered overnight.” 

“I couldn’t say, but my wife almost left me before Mycroft was born.” 

“Her pheromones do linger.” John offered. 

“And my wife is not going to be happy when I tell her about an overnight trip to her least favorite patient of mine.” 

“Tell me what you really think just happened, including the real prognosis and not what you think an omega can handle, and I’ll get you a ride home today in that helicopter Mycroft’s got hidden out back.” 

Dr. Sterns blinked and thought for a minute. “I’ve figured out that omegas are only stupid because they haven’t been taught anything, but I should have known Sherlock’s mate would be something special.” 

“I’m calm and better educated than you think, so tell me what you think is going on.” 

“I’ll need tests to confirm, and probably a more complete history than the brothers told me as I was dragged up here from the party.” Dr. Sterns paused and cleared his throat. “We could be looking at preeclampsia, eclampsia, HELP Syndrome, or some other variant of gestational hypertension; I can’t say for sure without checking for protein in your urine.” 

“Those usually occur during the third trimester, I’m only four months in.” 

“That’s why it’s worrying, and you need some tests run. You asked what I thought was going on, not what I could prove. I’ve been in the business a long time and I’ve never seen an omega your age who was just now getting around to having kids. I have seen omegas near the end of their fertile age, whose bodies start compensating by having multiple kids. They’ve usually had years of pregnancy, twins and triplets to get their bodies ready for quads or more, and you’ve only had single births.” 

“You think four babies is more than my body is ready for, even though it’s trying to make me have as many as possible.” 

“Exactly. It might be safest if we remove one or two of the babies.” 

“Selective reduction.” John offered the medical term to help him come to terms with it. “I saw an alpha refuse to let his omega have one, and it killed her and the six kids.” John wasn’t sure why he said that, as he knew doctors didn’t offer this solution lightly. 

“Ignorant alphas do more damage than uneducated omegas.” Dr. Sterns muttered. “Wait. Where did you see this? I’m sure I would have heard about it if it happened in England.” 

“Afghanistan. I hid my gender, went to medical school and joined the army. Been living on homemade suppressants for years; I was only found out about five years ago, when I got shot in action.” John had no problems giving this part of his medical history to the doctor Mycroft had trusted to know Mummy was on house arrest. “What did the Holmes have to say about all this?” 

“Mycroft is busy at his wedding. Greg is getting to know Harry and Clara.” 

“Sherlock?” 

“Only one way to stop an alpha in full blown family protection mode; sedative in the gluteus maximus.” 

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer arse.” John said, remembering the number of times he’d had to use a similar technique on army alphas. 

“Really, it’s the only target on your beanpole of an alpha.” 

John could almost smile at that, though a heavy decision weighed on him. 

“I should go check on him; the sedative will wear off soon.” 

“I’d like to get these tests done as soon as possible. As my doctor, I want to you ride with me in the helicopter to monitor my health until we get to London to do the tests, tonight.” 

“An idea worthy of the Holmes’ name,” Dr. Sterns said with a half hidden smile. “I’ll get on it.” 

Dr. Sterns stood and left the room, black bag in his hand. John watched him leave before turning to look out the window and start worrying. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Sherlock must have told everyone why John was in hospital, simply because nobody asked. He spent a day just having tests and talking to Dr. Sterns before he could be operated on. The procedure didn’t take long at all, but John was kept overnight for observation. John didn’t see a medical reason for it, but put it down to the conversation Sherlock had with Dr. Sterns before the procedure. Selective reduction, a nice medical term that avoided the emotions that came with the word abortion. Still, John would rather be fully aware of what was happening than kept in the dark and forced to worry about nameless things. 

The days in the hospital allowed John to give Dr. Sterns his full medical history, including what his suppressants were made of and the effects of the drugs Mycroft had given him. Dr. Sterns seemed annoyed at Mycroft’s behavior, but not surprised. Dr. Sterns even returned to Baker Street with John, to make sure the place was safe for John. Apparently, he knew something of Sherlock as well as what he knew of Mycroft. The flat was clean, Sherlock’s experiments moved into the basement flat. Mrs. Hudson was turning the upstairs room into a nursery, where Nanny would stay with Sean until the birth. 

The visitors that hadn’t been at the hospital, now showed up at the flat in small doses. Mrs. Hudson brought in tea and biscuits, and carefully monitored John’s caffeine intake. She also kept the conversation upbeat, always having a distraction ready if the subject got too close to John’s pregnancy. She’d even usher visitors out politely, just before Sherlock lost his patience with them. 

Slowly, Sherlock adjusted. As if he was the one who’d had a procedure in hospital, he recovered his strength and energy. Soon after, he was able to leave when John ordered him out of the flat. He took case with Greg, until Greg’s maternity leave kicked in. Greg, being a brother-in-law from heaven, had called in favors and bribed people to work with Sherlock while he was off. This kept John from killing his mate outright, as did the visits from people they had to be polite in front of. 

Harry, Clara, and Jean-Luc made a point of coming every Saturday for tea. John enjoyed their visits, but by the third one he couldn’t ignore the tension that came with them. Under the pretense of showing Clara the picture he had of Harry as a little kid, John pulled her to the side. 

“Clara, I’m not going to tell Harry anything more about your job, or that you might have been assigned to her.” 

Clara handed the picture back with a fake smile. “I know. I was assigned to watch over her and help Jean-Luc settle in, not marry her. You should know, that I feel in love with her, and married her outside of my job.” 

“I’ve seen how you are together; I never thought the feelings weren’t genuine.” John smiled, and let Clara out of the bedroom. 

He felt better, but the tension was back for the next visit, so John had to rethink his reasoning. When it came to him, he thought about writing a book about what he had to do. Most omegas wouldn’t even know it was an option. For now, he focused on getting the paperwork needed through the system, and approved by Mycroft. 

The next week, Mrs. Hudson brought out a tea tray and John went to the desk to grab a stack of papers. He set the papers next to the tea tray as Mrs. Hudson began pouring. 

“What’s this?” Clara asked, even though Harry was staring with open curiosity at the papers. 

“Read them and find out.” John was a little too happy to sound perfectly calm, but this might have helped them reach out and pick up the papers. 

Harry only read the title before letting out a gasp and looking at John for an explanation. He’d done it this way so he didn’t have to explain, but Harry wasn’t looking away. 

“You’ve done right by Jean-Luc, and it would be cruel to try and take him away from you. This waiver of parental rights is signed by me, Sherlock, and even Mycroft, as the alpha of the family. Should anything happen to the two of you, we’d be happy to take Jean-Luc, but short of that, we no longer have a claim on him.” 

“We’ll have you named guardian after our deaths as soon as the solicitor is open.” Clara responded first, goading Harry into moving, up and around the coffee table. She curled around his chair to hug his torso, avoiding the baby bump. Harry had to be uncomfortable, but she began muttering into his ear and crying on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry. Trying to sell you is the biggest regret of my life. I paid off my debt another way, got sober, and tried to find a way to apologize. Never found the words, never managed to write a letter to you in the army. All those years of sobriety, and I would have given it up when they told me you were dead, if they hadn’t had just put Jean-Luc in my arms. It broke my heart that he was all I’d have left of you, even as it filled my heart that I had him. Now I’ve got you and him, and you’re not even going to take him back when I’d deserve it if you did.” 

“No, Harry, no. We’ve all made mistakes. I didn’t think you really meant for me to never come back, but I convinced myself to believe it. I could have written you, had your address after all, but never did. I don’t think anyone deserves to have the legal system pull a loved one away from them, not when they’re doing right by that kid.” 

A final sniffing sob, and Harry managed to look up and press a wet kiss to his cheek. “You’ll be a perfect uncle, and he’ll love you.” 

“I like that, Uncle John.” John nodded thoughtfully, and reached for his abandoned tea. Harry knew enough not to get between him and his only caffeinated tea of the day, so she went back to hug Clara. John just enjoyed their visit, completely free of that tension. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Mandatory bedrest for the last two months of his pregnancy was an exercise in torture that even Mycroft wouldn’t use on his enemies. John managed to convince Sherlock that he was still allowed to walk to the bathroom, but he couldn’t convince Sherlock to go further away than the basement flat. Sherlock’s self-imposed time off from crime solving was what turned something boring into a powder keg of built up tension. Without his favorite way of cooling his temper, long walks around the city, John defaulted to the exercises he’d learned in therapy. They didn’t work better for his alpha being alive. 

The tiled floor of the bathroom could be slippery when wet, or when the world’s most observant man left a single silk sock on the floor. John couldn’t even see it, what with the girth leading his way. He didn’t fall, it was just a little slip, but it was also the tipping point. So the person at fault for both the girth and the sock got an earful. He very nearly got a punch in the nose, which had finally healed, but John’s blood pressure gave out while he was gearing up for the punch. 

John woke up in a private omega suite in a private hospital. Dr. Sterns and Sherlock were again in complete agreement: John wasn’t leaving the hospital with anybody inside of him. John did have a few demands that they had to accept, namely that Sherlock had to keep to hospital visiting hours. He spent all day with John and Sean, and Greg bribed the nightshift to take Sherlock on cases. This kept John calm, and much more agreeable when the nurses came in to check up on him. 

Bedrest in hospital turned out to be great, as they were able to tell his was in labor long before it became more than a persistent backache. The epidural was fantastic, and Dr. Sterns only gave Sherlock a mild sedative. The first two came quickly, but it was the third that wanted to draw John into his twenty-two hour labor. They decided on surgery, and knocked John unconscious. 

John stared into Sherlock’s eyes as the drug took effect, hoping not to leave the man with children to raise alone. Dr. Sterns had argued for taking two of the four, but John had fought to keep the third. He didn’t feel it was medically necessary, just precautionary. Now, as he faded out, he prayed saving the third hadn’t ruined everything. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Soft humming was an unusual thing to wake to, but as he recognized the voice John realized they hadn’t let Sherlock bring his violin into the maternity ward. Which was a great reminder of where he was and why, though he figured if he was in trouble Sherlock wouldn’t sound so happy. Opening his eyes, John saw Sherlock had Sean on his hip, rocking and humming at the clear plastic crib of the hospital. John couldn’t see in the crib for Sherlock’s body, and as much as he wanted to know how many babies were in there, he didn’t want to know. 

Sherlock hummed a sustained note and then began whispering to his captive audience. “Clearly, I don’t expect you to start out on Mozart, but you’ll work up to it on whatever instruments you decide you want to play.” 

“Sherlock.” John had to stop halfway through the word to clear his dry throat, but it was enough to get Sherlock spinning around, quick enough to make Sean giggle. 

Sherlock stepped over and reached for a cup, but Sean saw their destination. “Da!” 

“Best take him before he wakes up his siblings.” Sherlock whispered, handing over the wriggling bundle. 

Sean had become used to seeing his dad this way, during the time John had been on bedrest, so he was happy to snuggle up to him. Once he settled, Sherlock was there with a cup and straw for John to sip from. 

“You were let off the anesthesia six hours ago, and they wanted to let you wake up naturally.” Sherlock started answering the questions John was wetting his throat to ask, though not the most important ones first. “I tried to tell them that waking up to an emergency was natural for you, but they wouldn’t believe me. Don’t ever do this to me again; it was intolerable. Dimmock brought by some cold cases, and Nanny kept after me to take care of Sean, but it was boring without you.” 

John pulled his mouth away from the empty cup, and looked at Sherlock. 

Sherlock set the cup down and turned away, coming back with a bundle in blue. “You remember Jonathan, he was the first out. All the bits are where they are supposed to be.” John was still looking at the tiny fingers poking out of the bundle when Sherlock brought over a pink one. “Second out, your daughter, Johnna.” 

John pulled her closer to him even as he looked at his mate. Sherlock only grinned at him before pulling out the third bundle, blue and smaller than his siblings. 

“The little one who refused to follow the crowd, John junior.” 

“How is he?” John would have been embarrassed at how soft and terrified his voice was in any other circumstance. 

“Underweight, and he had to spend a few hours in the incubator. There might be complications they didn’t find, but he’s alive, and healthier than we have any right to expect.” 

Blinking back happy tears, John fought for something to say, knowing nothing could express how he felt. “Are those names really on their birth certificates?” 

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, as if remembering all the arguments they’d had about not naming the kids after their omega. “No, I went with the names you’d picked out, and put my name choice as their middle name. Sherrinford Hamish, Mary Grace, and Harold Mike.” 

“Harry Mike?” John asked, knowing that couldn’t be right. 

“Harold Mycroft Holmes-Watson, if you must know. Clearly it’s expected, since Greg’s decided on Gabriel Jonathan Holmes. He’s due in a few weeks; you were early.” 

John grinned at his mate, who was looking completely putout at having to name a kid after his brother. John didn’t point out that Sean was already named after Greg, so it wasn’t necessary. “Gabriel? Are they trying to get him beat up at school?” 

“Probably counting on his gang of cousins to keep him safe.” 

John’s returned smile turned into a huge yawn. He didn’t want to go back to sleep, but his body had been through an ordeal and needed rest to heal. 

“I suppose I’d better call the nurses.” Sherlock griped as he pushed the call button. 

“You were supposed to let them know the instant I was awake, weren’t you?” John asked, as he watched Sherlock return the newborns to their crib. 

“Technically, but I knew answering your questions would be better for you than forcing you to sit through answering their questions.” 

A nurse entered the room, keeping John from telling Sherlock that he was correct. Sean began to scream his desire not to leave his Dad’s side, which woke up his siblings. Pulling Sean to him, Sherlock walked with the nurse who pushed the newborns down the hall. They were fed and changed, and then pushed back down the hall to John’s room. 

John was picking at a tray of hospital food when they came back, half asleep and only perking up when he saw them. He shoved the tray away and scooted over to his side of the bed. Understanding him, Sherlock set Sean in the bed beside John and gave him the diaper bag. The nurse offered some last minute instructions and took away John’s supper tray. John feed Sean as Sherlock brought over the newborns and toed off his shoes. 

Sherlock took Sean to wipe his face and burp him, and then joined the rest of their family in the bed. This was why omega suits had large beds, so the family could learn each other’s scents and bond before going back to the real world. A protective alpha could watch over his family as they fell asleep, knowing they were as safe as they’d ever be. 

John figured Mycroft had security stationed around them and had checked out ever staff member on this floor, if not in the whole hospital. Still, he doubted Sherlock would sleep until they were back in Baker St. Right now, Sherlock was calm though, and John felt compelled to tell him something he’d been holding back. 

“Last time Mycroft was over when you weren’t, I told him I wouldn’t break his nose for lying to us if he made sure I had birth control for the rest of my fertile heats.” John was awake enough to watch Sherlock for signs of anger or betrayal, any signs of his alpha nature. 

“You should punch him and let me record it; I’ve made sure you’ll never get pregnant again.” 

John tilted his head so his ear wasn’t pressed against his pillow, unsure if he was hearing everything. “Dr. Sterns said I hadn’t damaged anything and could have more kids.” 

“He also said that each pregnancy would become increasingly dangerous for you. I hate being here without you, so I had a vasectomy while you were in hospital for the selective reduction.” Sherlock was on his side, facing John as he casually said this. 

John shifted Sean down a little so he could pull Sherlock to him for a desperate kiss. It broke when another yawn reminded John of what his body really wanted to do right now. Staring at Sherlock as he stuffed his pillow under his head, John spoke in sleepy, soft words. 

“You don’t even realize how amazing you are. Alphas are all about having as many kids as they can, to prove how virile they are, and you just told that to fuck right off. I could have spent the rest of my life trapped in the flat or hospital, but you cared enough to have yourself shooting blanks for the rest of your life.” 

“It only took a couple of hours, and it is reversible.” Sherlock muttered, unsure if he deserved praise for something so logical. 

“Oh, luv, it’s such an unbelievable thing for an alpha to do, I wouldn’t even dare write it into one of my books.” 

Sherlock let himself look at his sleeping mate and family without guarding his expression. He knew kids brought problems; they’d have to think about schools and discipline, medical issues that might crop up. But he didn’t care; he was much more excited to see what color their eyes would settle as, and who would look the most like John. They’d be so smart, and John would keep them grounded and happy. 

Thinking about it, Sherlock realized he was happy too, and he didn’t want to sleep in case that feeling went away. It wouldn’t though, as his mate would be there when he woke, ready with praise and being unpredictable. Sherlock gleefully ran John’s words back through his mind, relishing the praise as he always did, until he caught on the sleeping man’s last words. 

“What books?” 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, I've been working on this porny little one-shot identity porn for a year? That's all Her Majesty's Secret O was supposed to be, and yet, 100,000 words later, here were are, finally finished. For my own sanity, I must say now there will be no other works in this universe. Feel free to imagine or even write your own fluffy verse from here on out.  
> If something doesn't make sense or I left a plot hole open, you can tell me here or on my tumbler https://www.tumblr.com/blog/zevkia  
> Some of you have been hanging with me since the beginning, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate that: AriadneVenegas, Lapus_Lazulli, lutz, Ashley_Skye, sherlocked_bootoye, Attalander, and others. Thank you so very much!


End file.
